Penny for Your Thoughts, Parts One through Eight

As Jason moved towards Abelard Park, he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the apartment he had practically lived in for the past several months.  The building wasn't visible from where he stood, but its imposing shadow was still cast over him.  With each step that he took, that apartment and all that it contained were becoming his increasingly more distant past, something he could reminisce over but could never return to.  Little did he know, along with the person he was leaving behind, he was absconding with the fortune of the place.

On any given normal day, the man would not be found walking the asphalted over paths of nature that man had devised; the tell-tale evidence of this fact that any stranger could surmise was the somewhat soft center of his structure, a slightly bulging belly.  For some reason he was drawn to the park after the turn of events.  This wasn't an ordinary day, however, as he had discovered when a gently tossed breeze of words caused a hurricane of repercussions, moving outward and sweeping the unsuspecting man along for the ride.

Somewhere during the course of heated words, it became quite clear that the argument was more than a passing storm and had been brewing for longer than he had suspected.  He would never become aware of the fact that it had been building strength for months and that a poor turn of phrase would feed the system that had settled in over them like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.  In reality, this approaching catastrophe had been nurtured unknowingly during each conversation, every word uttered.

Thinking back, replaying every syllable of every word in his mind, hoping to find some inflection that might have been misinterpreted, the man shook his head at the mystery, unable to disentangle the Gordian knot, and, as any who have studied the decaying pages of myth and legend know, there is but one solution to that eternal puzzle.

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Part Two

Springtime in the park has an unforgiving way of reminding those without a lover, or on their way to soon being without one, of their failures, not just as a significant other to some particular person or another, but as a human who is supposed to find their completion within the heart and soul of another.  This thought danced around in his mind, demanding his attention with the sight of each couple that had settled into arms that formed their own knots.  He had felt Sheila and he had been knotted together, too.  Over these last few weeks, the binding had loosened until it had come completely undone and now he had tripped over the loose strings, stumbling into the ever open arms of being single.

Most people in the weakened and frail condition of being a spurned lover would lash out at those who were still contained in the welcoming bonds of a lover's embrace, but the young man could not force himself into such a state of mind.  The slings and arrows of his internal workings were targeted at himself, at her, and whatever it was that had exactly happened a little over ten minutes ago.

The sword was to fall on his own union, not theirs.

Again he shook his head, more vigorously this time, as he wondered, "What exactly DID happen?"  The mystery refused to relinquish its secrets to his prying eyes, hiding away the key evidence from his fingers.

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Part Three

When he was first invited to share her bed, he had landed upon its eastern shores.  As she increasingly stayed out of this room, he, at first, resisted the urge to move westward, but his own Manifest Destiny had slowly taken root and could not be denied.  The problem with that doctrine, however, is that the natives have to be obliterated in order for growth to continue.  His eyes were cast upon the door.

Looking at the door that led to the remainder of the apartment, he wondered what he had done wrong and how much longer he would be punished for whatever slight he had perpetuated upon the woman.  There were only two way to approach the situation as he saw it.  One, he could barrel into the room fueled by anger, taking an accusatory tone and launching an attack that the woman probably expected and had prepared for; or two, he could simply walk on eggshells in the vain hope that this flirtation with separation was temporary and that a peaceful coexistence was possible.

Obviously there was only one option, so he glued on a smile and exited the room, peeking around the corner.  That illusory mask he had been fastening over his true emotions, removing them from sight, but the visage remained identical and authentic.  Leaning against the door, he stared at his girlfriend who was adorned in his favorite jacket.

Her hand was pushed deep into the pocket, finding tranquility within its material.  As he rested upon the doorjamb, he allowed himself to believe, to fancy that she had found some comfort with something familiar of his, a sign that she was weakening.  Why she couldn't have found that cuddling next to him in the expanse of the bed eluded the man, but settled on the fact that sometimes the whole thing is a bit too much and we must settle for the tiny piece, a nibble here and a nibble there, slowly wearing down the form.

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Part Four

If the widening of one's lips into a smile can make enough sound to wake a person, his smile must have succeeded in causing such a commotion for the young lady's eyes flew open with a startle as she bolted upright almost as quickly.  Her hand pulled from the jacket with a jolt, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, her hand still clenched, which she then stared at and then at him.  With a quick yawn and a wipe of her eyes with the balled up fist, the woman asked, "How long have you been watching me?"

He shook his head, almost dismissing the question altogether.  "Not long, maybe a few minutes."

Her hand found the pocket again.  "You shouldn't stare at people when they're sleeping," she scolded.  "It's creepy."

"It's difficult to resist with you," he said cutely with a boyish charm in a vain attempt to ingratiate himself with the woman who had abandoned the bed to him all of those preceding weeks.

Slumping forward, she put her hand on the back of her neck, massaging it in a primitive manner, trying to work the kinks, caused by the hard sofa and wayward springs, from her muscles.  "You'll give someone a heart attack."  There was a resignation in the words, a fatigue.

He moved next to her and pushed her tiny hands to the side, his own hands beginning to knead those knotted regions of her upper back.  "Your neck wouldn't be bothering you if you had come to bed."  The words slipped more accusatory than he had intended.  As is often the case, the dressing is far more important than what lies underneath, the presentation making some things more palatable than they would be otherwise.

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"There was this movie I was watching.  I must have fallen asleep."  The answer came quickly after a pause, rattled off in a quick succession like a coached witness in a courtroom.

"Oh."

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes accusatory at the one word response.  "What?  You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that," he protested, his hands continuing to work the areas that needed tending but neglecting the more crucial ones, internal areas that were well-hidden and incapable of being alleviated.

Pulling away from her lover, the woman stood and turned, wagging a finger in the man's face.  "I hope not.  This is MY place and I won't be questioned like some child."

Before a response could even be uttered, a defense hoisted for his own protection, the woman had spun again and stomped off in the direction of the kitchen.  Calling after her, he said, "I was watching you sleep!"  He pleaded to no avail.  Shaking his head, he said to himself, "That's all."

After a few minutes of allowing the boiling pot to cool off, the man followed her into the kitchen.  She sat at the table staring at the kettle she had placed on the stove.  The woman refused to use a microwave like most modern people would.  To even suggest otherwise would elicit an argument on the virtues of patience and how there was an inherent difference in the taste.  There she sat, staring at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.  Her back was to him and he wasn't sure if she knew he was there or not.

 Clearing his throat, he announced his presence, committed to not making the same mistake he had made when he watched her sleeping.

"Yes?" she answered flatly.  He wondered, was it from the freshness of a new day she wasn't quite ready to greet?

"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered.

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Part Six (added 10/5/13)

Her head snapped around in a way that would have made Linda Blair proud.  With eyes as wide as the plate that rested upon the table, she turned to the man, demanding, "What did you say?"

The act was so out of the ordinary, so unexpected that the man raised his hands in defense with a laugh of uneasiness.  "What?"  In his mind, he assumed that these uncharacteristic motions were the result of a bad night's sleep on a couch that was barely suitable for sitting, let alone slumber.

"What did you say?" she repeated?  A finger wagged in his face again.  "Was I talking in my sleep?  Is that why you were staring at me?"

"What?"  He was dumbfounded by the sudden inquisition over a few words that were supposed to lighten the heavy mood which had settled into the cozy domicile, displacing them.  Instead it seemed as though he were the one being displaced.

"What made you say that?  To use those words?"  There was no request.  It was as binding as a royal edict.

"It's....it's just a saying."

"Just a saying," she echoed back at him.  Her eyes searched his face before they fell to the floor in a silent penance for what had transpired.  The hysteria had been tempered for a temporary moment.

"It's said all the time," he continued, sensing a shift in the words of the discussion.

"In the two years I've known you, you've never--not once!--said that!  NEVER!"  The volume of her words exploded forth again.  The eye of the hurricane had passed quickly, providing a respite that was nowhere near the length he would have liked.  "Why did you say it?"  There was a plea within those words, seeking some sort of understanding in the randomness of life.

He pointed at the kettle which was throwing steam into the air, having a soft, melodic whistle.  "You were just staring at the kettle, lost in thought.  I was hoping it might spark a conversation, that's all.  But I guess I should have been happy with the silence."

The whistle to the kettle was like that of a train making a call for its last passengers to come aboard for their departure.  Little was he aware that his ticket had already been purchased without the man's knowledge.

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If the man had allowed the woman to simmer down, none of the proceeding would have followed, but he didn't, casting his penny phrase into the sea of life, allowing the ripples to be thrown outward.  There are no accidents in life, though, with each event pushing us in the direction we are supposed to take even when we didn't know or consciously make the decision.

She shook her head and plopped down into the chair.  "I've had enough, Jason."

"Enough of what?"  Ignorance is the refuge of cowards who lack the fortitude to stand up to the frailties of the gifts we were offered and now are taken away.  When they have expired, as far too many do, we do not want to accept their demise.  They were supposed to last forever.  We promised.  She promised.

Her eyes locked with his.  "Come on now, Jason.  Us.  I've had enough of us."  Her hand motioned at the distance between the two of them.  Not so long ago, there wouldn't have been any and now there appeared to be an ocean, a growing gulf.

"What did I do?"  He took several steps toward, trying to shrink the breadth of distance, chasing after the woman who retreated from his every verbal and physical approach.  There had to be a reason.  Nothing happened without a reason.

"You didn't DO anything," she allowed, resigned from the conversation.

"How does that make any sense?"

"This who floating through life thing, it was funny at first, maybe even endearing, but now--"

"Look, I've told--"

"Yeah, I know, I've heard it enough times--Fate, the great unknowable, always provided for you.  It was cute the first one hundred times."

He stood there in disbelief, staring at his girlfriend of the last few years and gave an almost imperceivable shake of the head.  Normally it would go unnoticed, however, when a person is angry, they have a heightened sense of every nuanced motion another makes.  "What, Jason?  What?  What are you shaking your head at?"

There was no sense in being covert now, so the man shook his head far more noticeably now, taunting his girlfriend.  "You never understood when I told you those things.  You always thought YOU were the most important part of that equation, but you had it all backwards.  Fate, that was the key component, not you.  It got me through these last few years."

The words touched a nerve as the woman flew out of the chair, knocking it to the ground as she did so.  Pointing at herself, she yelled, surely loud enough to announce the presence of the argument to all of the neighbors who surrounded them, "That wasn't FATE that got you through the last couple of years.  That was ME!  I'VE gotten you through the last couple of years!"

The woman was attempting to stake out the territory that Jason had already laid claim to in the name of Providence.  It was an attempt to prove that she, not Fate, was the dominant factor in his life.  "I don't mean that you aren't important, Sheila, I'm not.  It's just--"  The man hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts.  "It's just that I think Fate delivered you to me."

Jason looked at her like a loyal pet, but his loyalty was divided among the woman and the force that he believed brought them together.  To him it was a beautiful dance which he appreciated and believe she would do the same.  But not everyone has an undying allegiance to the apportioners of our great unknown but well-charted future.  He was sure that this would assuage the woman's anger and doubts.

With a sigh, Sheila rubbed her temples with her index and middle finger in tight concentric circles.  As she leaned over, she righted the chair which she had thrown aside earlier and then found her place in it again.  "I'm exhausted," she announced.

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Part Eight

Looking at his shoes, Jason asked, "Can't we discuss this, Sheila?"

She crossed her arms on top of the table before here and rested her forehead upon them.  The words were mumbled as she said, "I don't think there's anything more for us to talk about."

That was her problem, he contemplated.  She THOUGHT about love, but you can't do that.  Love is about believing, feeling, faith.

Unable to hear her words or perhaps wanting to disbelieve the words that were launched in his direction, Jason responded, "I'm sorry?"  Maybe the words were an apology for something he had done to her or something she perceived he had done to her.  Only the man knows the intent of those few words.

All we know is that Sheila repeated the words, making sure to raise her head and face so that the target of her words could not mistake any of the syllables she uttered.  "I said that I don't think there's anything more for us to talk about."

"Please, just--" he started to protest, ready to raise a defense not only of himself but of them and their time together.

The glare that emanated from her eyes had the effect that the lights of a police car have--a sudden arresting stop as he sidled to the side, allowing her to have her say.  "I think you should go, Jason."