A Depressing Bit
If Not For Thinking, This Would be Easy…
Running from nothing and running from everything, he left. It was a sudden departure and few were informed. Those who were informed accepted it skeptically; no one really thought he would run off. If he hadn’t already been so bent on escape their disbelief would have only fueled him more, tipped the scales.
On the road he had passed several signs but was still unsure of which state he was in. Probably one of the Dakotas. He’d left Littleton long ago and was sure he was through Wyoming. Did it make a difference? It was Canada or bust and he hadn't much cared which came first.
Most of the snow had melted, it was late spring after all, and the roads were clear for miles. Not since Cheyenne had he seen headlights and for those he slowed dramatically, fearing police. He didn’t fear the police for their law enforcing intentions though; he just didn’t want to deal with another delay. Didn't want to be noticed, didn't want to be known. This car turned out to be some sort of family sized sport wagon. It drove past quick enough he may as well have been parked, and he sighed.
As he passed each town he imagined a new life within. Each story was unique, but never too far from his own, and he preferred it that way. He wasn’t looking to live a lie, he just needed a new truth.
In Newcastle he bought a small bookstore on the town’s main strip and quickly doubled its patronage through the addition of an espresso machine. The shelves of books looked aged and had yellowed, he re-bound all he could. Soon he was buying piles of books from all over the country to stock his shelves, and he was happy.
Passing through Rapid City he snatched up a copy-writing position at the local paper. It took a little while but soon he was writing sports. He loved writing sports. Living in South Dakota, his love for hockey reached full bloom, flourished. Just a few years before retiring, the Rapid City Journal let him write a series of features on pond hockey, could it be better?
Pierre offered him the future of a humble songwriter. He rented a small studio apartment in the middle of town and worked for a few years at the Albertsons. A month or two later he began offering music lessons and eventually was busy enough to quit the grocery store. Rumor spread that he was one of the best guitarists around and, although this was largely an overstatement, he was soon the centerpiece of all city events.
Every town had something better to offer. But he knew inside that no matter where he ended up, the honeymoon feeling would wear off and again he would be restless, discontent, unfulfilled. To him the term ‘comfortable’ meant something strikingly different than to anyone else he knew. Katy was aware of this when they married but shrugged it off as another youthful inhibition. Each, they were hardly two decades old; their combined forty years of life may not have been enough. Now, twenty years later, he felt like the eighty they mutually held still didn't cut it.
Perhaps it was because they still acted so young? They’d never been interested in children at the same time and eventually both of them had decided it was a phase they’d grown out of. Children didn’t fit their lifestyle and they were so happy, why change?
Maybe because life requires change, he sometimes thought. They’d never moved past eating out every night, the same Saturday evening shows, the same old friends who lived the same old lives. At least She’d never moved past it all. He had lost interest in that long ago. He’d daydreamed his way past it, imagined these better lives-or if not better, at least newer.
Was it a crime for the novelty to wear off so quickly? Should he blame himself? Or was she to blame for letting life get so routine? He told himself ‘If this was the life she enjoys I shouldn’t feel guilty, we’re just not made to be’.
These are the thoughts which filled his head between towns.
The house was quiet and she couldn’t sleep. It was a large house and they lived in the deep hills of Littleton so it would be logical for her to be afraid, but this wasn’t fear. Not in the traditional sense.
That night she had rented a chick-flick and thought of romance. Youthful romance, spontaneous romance, daring romance, and new romance. Her imagination was saturated with the memories of her past (her imagination was especially involved, because most of these memories had all but been forgotten). Only the best moments with every boy she had dated were relived and although the compilation was far from realistic, she had created the perfect man.
He was smart and funny and always sincere. His eyes were the brightest blue and his smile broad and white. He spoke only what was perfect so nothing needed dispute. Somehow he knew every secret in Colorado and each night he had a new surprise, a new adventure.
This man would take her to Breckenridge, Vail. He would pamper her and praise her and never leave her side. When he would leave her side it would be the most appropriately timed occasions, he would know her this well. When they ate he would mix conversation and digestion perfectly. He would stand when she stood and he would smile when she momentarily lost her grace. He was perfect in every way.
The thought of this man broke her heart.
She knew why she was home alone, but had never known how to fix it. Their routine had ruined them, but he never changed a thing. She loved their friends and she loved their life, but she loved her husband more and was finally realizing she might not have made this clear. Does he love me the same? Have I pushed him away, or has it been this life? She finally told herself ‘If he loves me, he’ll come home. If it was this life which pushed him away he’ll come home, we can change this life.’
And she lay herself down, restless with these thoughts.
(I wrote this a while ago for a class)
Running from nothing and running from everything, he left. It was a sudden departure and few were informed. Those who were informed accepted it skeptically; no one really thought he would run off. If he hadn’t already been so bent on escape their disbelief would have only fueled him more, tipped the scales.
On the road he had passed several signs but was still unsure of which state he was in. Probably one of the Dakotas. He’d left Littleton long ago and was sure he was through Wyoming. Did it make a difference? It was Canada or bust and he hadn't much cared which came first.
Most of the snow had melted, it was late spring after all, and the roads were clear for miles. Not since Cheyenne had he seen headlights and for those he slowed dramatically, fearing police. He didn’t fear the police for their law enforcing intentions though; he just didn’t want to deal with another delay. Didn't want to be noticed, didn't want to be known. This car turned out to be some sort of family sized sport wagon. It drove past quick enough he may as well have been parked, and he sighed.
As he passed each town he imagined a new life within. Each story was unique, but never too far from his own, and he preferred it that way. He wasn’t looking to live a lie, he just needed a new truth.
In Newcastle he bought a small bookstore on the town’s main strip and quickly doubled its patronage through the addition of an espresso machine. The shelves of books looked aged and had yellowed, he re-bound all he could. Soon he was buying piles of books from all over the country to stock his shelves, and he was happy.
Passing through Rapid City he snatched up a copy-writing position at the local paper. It took a little while but soon he was writing sports. He loved writing sports. Living in South Dakota, his love for hockey reached full bloom, flourished. Just a few years before retiring, the Rapid City Journal let him write a series of features on pond hockey, could it be better?
Pierre offered him the future of a humble songwriter. He rented a small studio apartment in the middle of town and worked for a few years at the Albertsons. A month or two later he began offering music lessons and eventually was busy enough to quit the grocery store. Rumor spread that he was one of the best guitarists around and, although this was largely an overstatement, he was soon the centerpiece of all city events.
Every town had something better to offer. But he knew inside that no matter where he ended up, the honeymoon feeling would wear off and again he would be restless, discontent, unfulfilled. To him the term ‘comfortable’ meant something strikingly different than to anyone else he knew. Katy was aware of this when they married but shrugged it off as another youthful inhibition. Each, they were hardly two decades old; their combined forty years of life may not have been enough. Now, twenty years later, he felt like the eighty they mutually held still didn't cut it.
Perhaps it was because they still acted so young? They’d never been interested in children at the same time and eventually both of them had decided it was a phase they’d grown out of. Children didn’t fit their lifestyle and they were so happy, why change?
Maybe because life requires change, he sometimes thought. They’d never moved past eating out every night, the same Saturday evening shows, the same old friends who lived the same old lives. At least She’d never moved past it all. He had lost interest in that long ago. He’d daydreamed his way past it, imagined these better lives-or if not better, at least newer.
Was it a crime for the novelty to wear off so quickly? Should he blame himself? Or was she to blame for letting life get so routine? He told himself ‘If this was the life she enjoys I shouldn’t feel guilty, we’re just not made to be’.
These are the thoughts which filled his head between towns.
The house was quiet and she couldn’t sleep. It was a large house and they lived in the deep hills of Littleton so it would be logical for her to be afraid, but this wasn’t fear. Not in the traditional sense.
That night she had rented a chick-flick and thought of romance. Youthful romance, spontaneous romance, daring romance, and new romance. Her imagination was saturated with the memories of her past (her imagination was especially involved, because most of these memories had all but been forgotten). Only the best moments with every boy she had dated were relived and although the compilation was far from realistic, she had created the perfect man.
He was smart and funny and always sincere. His eyes were the brightest blue and his smile broad and white. He spoke only what was perfect so nothing needed dispute. Somehow he knew every secret in Colorado and each night he had a new surprise, a new adventure.
This man would take her to Breckenridge, Vail. He would pamper her and praise her and never leave her side. When he would leave her side it would be the most appropriately timed occasions, he would know her this well. When they ate he would mix conversation and digestion perfectly. He would stand when she stood and he would smile when she momentarily lost her grace. He was perfect in every way.
The thought of this man broke her heart.
She knew why she was home alone, but had never known how to fix it. Their routine had ruined them, but he never changed a thing. She loved their friends and she loved their life, but she loved her husband more and was finally realizing she might not have made this clear. Does he love me the same? Have I pushed him away, or has it been this life? She finally told herself ‘If he loves me, he’ll come home. If it was this life which pushed him away he’ll come home, we can change this life.’
And she lay herself down, restless with these thoughts.
(I wrote this a while ago for a class)