Cinder-Block

                We sat upon that cinder-block wall. It wasn’t romantic, but for us it was. It was a five-star restaurant complete with waning, flickering candles and far too many forks to handle. I can give him that much, at least. He tried to be romantic just by being there with me, holding my hand as I rested my head perfectly in the crook of his neck. His neck was as warm as a midnight blaze and smelled as fresh as the first afternoon rainstorm of summer. The cinder-block wall, in all its roughness and course surface imperfections, was my utopia. It was an escape from reality, from work, school, parents, but as much as I glorified that wall, I know it was the boy who was my true refuge. I allowed myself to fall too comfortable into that boy’s grasp that I scared myself. I scared myself so much that I foolishly forced myself to believe that it was the magic of that broken-down wall that was my refuge. It was safer that way, and even now? Much safer. During those blind months, that wall was my sole reason for living.

                “Angel?”

                His blazing, blue eyes reflected my soul. Gazing into those eyes, I couldn’t even be mad that Colin abruptly spoke, causing me to vacate that perfect crook  in his neck. “Yes, baby?” I asked, knowing full well what he wanted.

                “Well, love. You know how much you mean to me. I love you more than you can imagine. It isn’t hard to imagine, really. I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You are the smartest girl I have ever met and sweeter than I even thought possible. You really are, you know, Laine. I don’t know if you realize that……”

                “Well, um, thanks, Colin,” I managed to sputter.

                “You know I wouldn’t hurt you…….”

                I’m pretty sure my shocked expression said it all. What? Hurt me? Why would he mention hurting me? This isn’t good. This is bad. This is very bad, horrid even. This is horrid. As I searched for more synonyms, he continued on. Damn.

                “…. For the best. I am not who you think I am. I know everyone says that. Kinda like the it’s not you, it’s me. But no, not the “I’m not who you think I am” in a book or movie or serial killer kind of way, just in an “I’m not nice” sort of way. You know I’m not good with words, Elaine……” he trailed off.

                Bullshit. Bullshit he’s not good with words. Mister Creative-Writer over there. Mister Five-Thousand-Words-A-Day, published poet, Master Debater, perfect punchline. Colin was good with words. Colin was the best with words. Well, maybe not the best. He was no Byron or Silverstein, but he was certainly an Auden. Colin was amazing, if you were into that kind of stuff. The only time I ever saw a flicker of hesitance within him was when he couldn’t hide behind his pen or a joke. The truth was a new and foreign concept to Colin and one which he never sought to learn the language of.

                “Whatever.”I planted my hands on the unforgiving surface of the wall and hopped down. My palms instantly stung as the course cement tugged at my skin. I acted as if nothing could stop me as I sucked up the pain, aware that this would remind me of this night for at least a week during the healing process. Damn.

                “I honestly love you,” called Colin, as if this proclamation made my position any easier. I didn’t look back least I turn into a pillar of salt. Although I’m sure a pile of salt wouldn’t be capable of feeling the crippling sensation that gripped my soul. Perhaps I should have looked back….or at least listened to his pathetic reasoning for breaking up with me.  Oh well, I chose my path and now I must stick with it. Damn.