Chapter 1
My story has a beginning, a middle, and an end like any other. If I was conventional, I would start at the beginning, lead you through the middle, and have a big climactic ending. But I don’t want you to pin me down as conventional. Do I then throw you a curve by starting in the middle? So that you don’t know how it began before it ends? No, that’s too common these days-and yet, I don’t want to start at the end either. That turns things around, making my rights wrong, and your lefts right and I don’t want anyone to blame me for confusing them. So I guess I’ll start where my memory always does: the day he broke up with me. It’s not a beginning or an end and it is certainly more than the middle ground.
I was little more than a teenager, a kid really, at 21, unencumbered by tradition and propriety. Like many of my counterparts, I’d had the occasional drink, the occasional smoke, the occasional partner. And that didn’t stop the night Tom left me. Actually, it wasn’t night. It was the middle of the day, just after lunch. I’d made my way down the street, called him on my lunch break. We’d been apart two weeks, tops. I missed him like crazy and he missed me enough to move on. The words came out without a catch in his voice, without a tear, “I don’t want to do this.”
Mouth open, first love, first heartbreak. I cried tears of frustration and hurt. Nothing I said changed his mind.
“But I want to be with you. I need this to work. I don’t want this to end.”
My words feel upon deaf ears. The voice raw, “Goodbye Lucy.”
Dust from the city was now caked on my carefully made-up face. It’s all about appearances so I carefully made my way to a coffee shop where I let myself into the bathroom. Sticky pink soap on my hands, I washed my face clean. New canvas to start the day over. Memories to forget. His words hadn’t been harsh, just matter of fact. How can you argue with fact? I had tried-given it my best shot but to no avail. It was a mess.
Starting with concealer as always, I ran the stick over the dark circles under my eyes. Smoothing it with my index finger, I then applied my face powder and blush, erasing any indication of my tears. I opened my eyes wide to apply my mascara, following it with shimmery eye shadow and finished with lipstick. I puckered my lips, “Yes,” I thought, “No one will be the wiser.”
Exiting the bathroom, I stopped at the counter for a coffee: decaf, cream, no sugar. Always a small, as if it were a treat, not a necessity. On my mid-level designer shoes, I teetered back to my office.
I’ve always put up a good front, an opaque exterior that no one can see through, though at times I choose to make myself transparent so people can think they know me. It’s never been a priority of mine to be an open book, a confidant, a friend. I’d rather talk business, small talk, the weather, than have people ask me how I’m feeling. There is less chance to break the façade when we keep it simple. An easy smile, medium size, will typically keep the women at bay. The men, I don’t worry about. They come and go like water: necessary to life but livable without for a while.
I was little more than a teenager, a kid really, at 21, unencumbered by tradition and propriety. Like many of my counterparts, I’d had the occasional drink, the occasional smoke, the occasional partner. And that didn’t stop the night Tom left me. Actually, it wasn’t night. It was the middle of the day, just after lunch. I’d made my way down the street, called him on my lunch break. We’d been apart two weeks, tops. I missed him like crazy and he missed me enough to move on. The words came out without a catch in his voice, without a tear, “I don’t want to do this.”
Mouth open, first love, first heartbreak. I cried tears of frustration and hurt. Nothing I said changed his mind.
“But I want to be with you. I need this to work. I don’t want this to end.”
My words feel upon deaf ears. The voice raw, “Goodbye Lucy.”
Dust from the city was now caked on my carefully made-up face. It’s all about appearances so I carefully made my way to a coffee shop where I let myself into the bathroom. Sticky pink soap on my hands, I washed my face clean. New canvas to start the day over. Memories to forget. His words hadn’t been harsh, just matter of fact. How can you argue with fact? I had tried-given it my best shot but to no avail. It was a mess.
Starting with concealer as always, I ran the stick over the dark circles under my eyes. Smoothing it with my index finger, I then applied my face powder and blush, erasing any indication of my tears. I opened my eyes wide to apply my mascara, following it with shimmery eye shadow and finished with lipstick. I puckered my lips, “Yes,” I thought, “No one will be the wiser.”
Exiting the bathroom, I stopped at the counter for a coffee: decaf, cream, no sugar. Always a small, as if it were a treat, not a necessity. On my mid-level designer shoes, I teetered back to my office.
I’ve always put up a good front, an opaque exterior that no one can see through, though at times I choose to make myself transparent so people can think they know me. It’s never been a priority of mine to be an open book, a confidant, a friend. I’d rather talk business, small talk, the weather, than have people ask me how I’m feeling. There is less chance to break the façade when we keep it simple. An easy smile, medium size, will typically keep the women at bay. The men, I don’t worry about. They come and go like water: necessary to life but livable without for a while.