Title: Untitled
Author: Kait Sudol
Date: 5.13.02
Summary: Nobody could understand what they had...
Notes: I attended Eugene Lang's annual Young Writer's Conference this May. I took a workshop called "Short Short Fiction" in which we wrote a very short story. This was the result.

Untitled

Long ago, my mother used to tell me fairy-stories about stars and light. Every star is a soul. Everyone we love moves into the heavens as they pass on, the usual super-natural yarns told to children to keep them docile before bed. As I pad over the wet grass, one star stands out in particular and I think of you.

The stories you told me were much more than simple fables explaining the universe in child-safe doses of poetry. You would read real poetry right before bed, filling my mind with color and contrast through line and verse. You could compose the most beautiful stanzas right on the spot, knowing all the while that I listened attentively and uncritically to every last syllable.

It's strange that I don't remember the big things. As I passed through the last town I caught sight of poster hangers, advertising the latest, trendy anarchist appearing in concert. I remembered, for an instant how we met and how we spent every Saturday. In all the days since I had left the barren apartment, the memory of this major portion of our lives had only come upon me once. Yet, everyday I thought of how I missed the way you stirred your coffee. Your coffee of all things. The way you poured the milk and added the sugar the same way every night. My heart aches with the memory.

Life is very different away from the city. I learned that rather quickly. People are friendly, but I feel very out of place. I came from an area so multi-cultural with so many people that seeing such small towns is sobering. And while the people are friendly, they are mistrusting. In this setting everyone knows everyone and the stranger is an outcast. I don't stay long in these places. I don't' stay long anywhere. Too many memories.

You had the most interesting fingertips. Callused but very gentle. You played that guitar as if you were trying to seduce it, soft and gentle, coaxing beauty from it as you did with everything you touched.

The diner reminds me of you as I stand at the curb and glance across the street to the neon halo-ed main strip. Everything around me has a little piece of you in it, from the park to this dingy little restaurant that I find myself drawn to. I wonder if you would have remembered these things as I do if you were with me, if the places and events would be as clear to you. I remember everything that's ever happened between us. I always will, even if some thoughts take longer to recall than others. We had something so special, so scared. Nothing should be allowed to pull us apart.

The counter of the diner looks clean, at the very least. Empty save for two other people. Both old men. Older than me. Older than you, even. I order coffee and something inside of me compels me to prepare it just the same way that you did. Milk. Stir. Sugar. Stir. I even test the heat with my pinky, feeling for a moment that I am you, that I am really dead and you are living in my body, in my place.

It's not necessarily a bad feeling.

I listen to the way the waitress and cook make small talk, just as I used to listen to you charm your way through even the shortest conversation. You could make people swoon with your words, just as you did with your music. I can't even begin to describe it. Anything I said would never do you justice. I was jealous of the way you talked to them and flirted, of course, but I won't dwell on that now. It's not as if that would bring you back.

The man next to me tries to start a conversation, but I am lost in my thoughts of you. He finally gets discouraged and asks the waitress to turn on the TV set. Ad the picture flickers to life, I gasp. It's you on the screen. A glamorous, artificial picture that doesn't compare to your natural, unrefined beauty, but a picture none the less. Tears spring to my eyes as the memories return, but I can't turn away. There is no sound on the television but maybe it's better that way. As the screen returns to the newscaster's smiling face, the man next to me turns to the other.

"Didja hear about that guy?" he asks. "That musician?" His companion nods.

"Yeah. I heard some jealous, crack-pot fan killed him."

I get up and leave without paying. No one stops me, now too caught up in their conversation to notice. I'm not crazy. They don't understand. They didn't know you. Nobody else knew you like I did. And now nobody else ever will.
fin.

Comments to kait@frowl.org.