Time and Space - 1
She couldn’t remember why having more time and more space had seemed so all important? A three-minute romance
This little two-part romance is from the 🌿Leaves archive of 3/24. If you’ve already read it, thank you! If you are a new subscriber, you may like it!
What’s he doing here? She stopped and stared at him across the distance.
She had jumped off the cable car at Market and Stockton, walked up to Union Square, and there he was, standing alone on the top steps at the far side of the plaza. He looked as if he were waiting for someone.
He surveyed the palms, the flower beds, the lawns, the troops of tourists huddled together, and suddenly he saw her, standing alone up there on the opposite corner. What’s she doing here? he wondered.
They looked at each other for a long minute across the wide space, above the throngs of people. She wanted so much to talk to him, to tell him she was sorry, that she’d been wrong and would he please come back home. He wanted to talk to her, too, and plead with her to just give it one more try. But, like useless pawns on a chess board, neither made a move. Finally, they turned in opposite directions and walked off into the city.
~~~~~~~
The excuse she’d given him back then was a pathetic cliché, embarrassing to remember. “It’s not you, it’s me,” she’d said. “I just need a little space. I need time to be alone, to just be myself for a while.”
“Yeah. Okay. I get it,” he’d said. “Frankly, I am exhausted trying to make you happy. It’s killing me. And, truly, it hurts too much to keep going. I feel like I lose a little more ground every day.”
Then he was gone and she was free. She could do and be whatever she wanted.
~~~~~~~
She found herself, this rainy morning, sitting in her tiny apartment, trapped once again in the vortex of Youtube. Two hours went by and she was still scrolling through videos, mesmerized by snoozy cats, dancing guys wearing suits, one-minute cake recipes.
At one o’clock, she was still sitting there on the sofa in her pajamas, wheels spinning, only half conscious. On the wall was the small painting that she’d given him for his birthday. She wasn’t even sure he liked it, but he’d left it behind, so maybe not. On the coffee table were the music CDs he’d mixed for her, along side a variety of unwashed coffee mugs and muffin crumbs.
She couldn’t remember why more ‘time’ and more ‘space’ had seemed so fucking all important? What did she think she was going to do with all the time, all the space when he was gone? She was going to write, that’s what! And she would begin painting again. And she would read all the books she’d bought but had never opened. She’d post flyers in the neighborhood offering to walk dogs on the weekends. Join a gym, get healthy, meet new friends, go out in the evenings. That was her plan.
Instead, six weeks later she was sleeping with his blue sweatshirt that she found abandoned in the bottom drawer, the sweatshirt that she won’t wash because it smells like him.
[ Part 2 is here. ]
“Frankly, I am exhausted trying to make you happy. It’s killing me. And, truly, it hurts too much to keep going. I feel like I lose a little more ground every day.” That's me in my first marriage. I failed to make her happy, which was an impossibility. No one can ever make another truly happy. That has to come from within. Four failed marriages later, she is alone and unhappy. I hope these two can get it together in part two. Great beginning, Sharron. The stage is set.
This is a special story once again. Sometimes it takes time to figure out what's important.