Story for Plato
I should've expected the expression I received as I walked up to the bus stop, your worn out bag stuffed to the top and ready to go. I wasn't prepared. You had hatred written in your eyes, glaring, the crease between your eyebrows folding deeper. It was obvious you were pissed that I had the guts to show up. I immediately looked down at my worn out sneakers, God, this was such a stupid idea. You looked me up and down, sneering and shaking your head. I knew I shouldn't have come, and I had tried to talk myself out of it earlier in the day, but in the back of my mind, I knew it was inevitable. I would've shown up in a hurricane. I wasn't expecting you to get in my face, either, but you did, your hot breath pouring onto my skin.
"Why the fuck are you here?" your voice was loud, your spit spraying onto my cheeks.
It's funny, because I was asking myself the same question. My nose began to burn, my eyes stinging. A crystal tear began to slide out of my eye and down my cheek. It splattered noticeably as it hit the pavement, shattering into tiny liquid pieces.
"Are you afraid, or are you just too fucking stupid to answer the quesion?" you were screaming now, and people walking by looked confused and concerned as they tried to avoid looking.
I opened my mouth, about to speak, but my breath caught in my throat as I thought better of it. I just sort of shook my head. I had a million thoughts running through my mind but none of them seemed good enough, witty enough to turn into words. I just stared some more at the pavement. I compared myself to your suitcase, both of us worn down looking, overstuffed and about to burst. I already looked like an idiot. I didn't want to start bawling, but I could feel it coming on and it terrified me.
I tried to apologize but the words wouldn't come, and I turned to leave just as the tears began streaming. You grabbed my shoulder and violently made me face you. I cowered, afraid you were going to hit me, despite you never laying a finger on me.
"Look..." you said, your voice softening. You layed the back of your hand on my cheek as you grabbed your bag, and I swear to this day you looked almost ashamed. Things could've been different, would have turned out differently if Bus #49 hadn't pulled up at that moment in time.
"Do you get jealous of the flowers?"
You looked so incredibly suprised at this, and I was just as much so. My voice sounded strange and childish, but somehow straightforward and dense too.
"I don't... I don't under... what do you mean?" You studdered, definately not something an epitamy of a confident man was expected to do. You dropped your suitcase, stepping back. The bus driver stared at us impatiently, but I disregarded him and blurted,
"They're never alone. They're always surrounded by something, you never see a flower by itself, you know? And they're so innocent, you know? So beautiful. They know no war, they know no hatred. They just.. sit there and look beautiful." I covered my mouth after this. I hadn't spoken so many words in weeks, months even. You simply gaped and grabbed your bags again, stepping onto the bus.
"I'm sorry," you uttered, "I'm so sorry."
I turned and walked away, staring at the pavement the entire way home.
"Why the fuck are you here?" your voice was loud, your spit spraying onto my cheeks.
It's funny, because I was asking myself the same question. My nose began to burn, my eyes stinging. A crystal tear began to slide out of my eye and down my cheek. It splattered noticeably as it hit the pavement, shattering into tiny liquid pieces.
"Are you afraid, or are you just too fucking stupid to answer the quesion?" you were screaming now, and people walking by looked confused and concerned as they tried to avoid looking.
I opened my mouth, about to speak, but my breath caught in my throat as I thought better of it. I just sort of shook my head. I had a million thoughts running through my mind but none of them seemed good enough, witty enough to turn into words. I just stared some more at the pavement. I compared myself to your suitcase, both of us worn down looking, overstuffed and about to burst. I already looked like an idiot. I didn't want to start bawling, but I could feel it coming on and it terrified me.
I tried to apologize but the words wouldn't come, and I turned to leave just as the tears began streaming. You grabbed my shoulder and violently made me face you. I cowered, afraid you were going to hit me, despite you never laying a finger on me.
"Look..." you said, your voice softening. You layed the back of your hand on my cheek as you grabbed your bag, and I swear to this day you looked almost ashamed. Things could've been different, would have turned out differently if Bus #49 hadn't pulled up at that moment in time.
"Do you get jealous of the flowers?"
You looked so incredibly suprised at this, and I was just as much so. My voice sounded strange and childish, but somehow straightforward and dense too.
"I don't... I don't under... what do you mean?" You studdered, definately not something an epitamy of a confident man was expected to do. You dropped your suitcase, stepping back. The bus driver stared at us impatiently, but I disregarded him and blurted,
"They're never alone. They're always surrounded by something, you never see a flower by itself, you know? And they're so innocent, you know? So beautiful. They know no war, they know no hatred. They just.. sit there and look beautiful." I covered my mouth after this. I hadn't spoken so many words in weeks, months even. You simply gaped and grabbed your bags again, stepping onto the bus.
"I'm sorry," you uttered, "I'm so sorry."
I turned and walked away, staring at the pavement the entire way home.