“I’m breaking up with Diptish,” I announced, at the green light staring down at me dimly, at Sammy’s withered yellow walls, at whoever was there to listen.
And Sammy answered, “You don’t deserve to be stood up, Trina, or lied to, or passed up for something else. You are meant to wear your purple dress and traipse around the world.” Swirling and twirling around in my dress, like a purple orchid. I was beautiful.
“I love you, Trina. I have loved you since I know you, for 3 years now.”
I smirked, “You’ve dated 6 girls in these 3 years, Sammy,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but I was looking for you in all of them. For your square jaws set so stubbornly, and your fiery arguments to set things right, how you feel responsible to change the world, your witty one-liners, your 32 stitches, your…” He said my stitches were like strips of moonlight in the dark midnight sky. I was loved.
For so long now, I had wanted to be beautiful, and I had wanted to be loved. And now I was. And I was kissing him. It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss. Now he’s falling asleep, and she’s calling a cab, while he’s having a smoke, and she’s taking a drag. Now they’re going to bed, and my stomach is sick, and it’s all in my head, but she’s touching his chest now, he takes off her dress now. Let me go!
When I woke up the next morning, my head throbbing, my eyes out of focus, I recognised Sammy. It was Sammy lying next to me. I just can’t look; it’s killing me, and taking control. When there’s nowhere else to run, there’s room for one more chance, just one more chance.
I left before Sammy woke up. I left him a note and D a text to meet me for lunch at Escoffier. I loved the chocolate éclairs at Escoffier. They made everything better. I was the quintessential bitch- I cheated on my boyfriend of 3 years with his best friend and then dumped both of them the next morning. I couldn’t even finish my chocolate ecclair that afternoon.
But how can the story end so soon, and so bitterly?
“Write down what happened to us,” he had said. So I did. “Write our story so at least someone will know where we went.”
But we were shattered silver Fords that crashed and burnt on that dark desert highway, with our hearts dislocated one last time. Nothing left but bones and scraps of withered paper. Who can say
where we went after that? Only that we left behind us the sad, black tracks of heart ache.