Doleful eyes stared forward on my account. Rachel pontificated between us, blissfully ignorant of the physical tension she divided. Kansas City was dreadfully scorching in late July, forcing us to adorn a modest minimum. Suzanne was Irish to a fault, particularly in such garb: blazing red locks that seemed to carry the sun's heat with her, soft skin without a hint of color. She was beautiful. The pale shoulders that peaked from her white tank implored me to console her position. My conscience, as usual, got the best of me.
We left the bar and Rachel suggested that we continue at my place. A half-bottle of Pinot Noir later, she was passed out on my couch. Suzanne and I had lost our distraction; we shyly transferred smiles for one another over our friend's incapacity. I grabbed my treasure box to fill the uneasy void: a tote filled with old newspaper clippings, report cards, pictures, and programs -- the story of my young life. Suzanne mused over snail mail sent by 11-year-old camp admirers. She gazed at me knowingly as she parsed the words Heather had once written.
It was inexcusably insensitive. So quick I was to guard our physical purity, but Suzanne could not have loved me more had I placed my lips upon her own. She was being allowed to know me. Somehow I felt I owed her this much.
We walked Rachel back to her place in union, opposing attempts to scream at innocent neighbors amidst her drunken stupor. (Ignorance, indeed!) I taxied Suzanne to the airport in silence, the two of us aware that I would not be present for her return. Outside the terminal gates, I extended a gentle squeeze upon those shoulders. I chose correctly -- righteously. I chose to be alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment