Coffee Stains

Short Story
Romantic · Other

Published July 29, 2012

Short Stories

I met him when we were both around eleven years old. Back then, he was a scrawny kid with a mop of curly blond hair that was constantly drooping into his eyes. He was always getting into awkward situations, climbing trees and getting stuck high in the upper branches because he hadn't thought to make sure that there was a way back down while he was on his way up. Doing things like finding a way to get to the mall but never making sure that he had a ride home.

Once, I asked him why he didn't take a few moments and plan ahead. He glanced at me, smiled his signature crooked smile, and said:

"Why? I'll find a way home; I always do. And besides, even if I did get stuck somewhere, it wouldn't matter that much, would it?"

Last December was when I first started seeing him differently. We were walking downtown on the sidewalk, following my family to go look at Christmas lights. I caught our reflections in one of the shiny glass windows on the buildings adjacent to the sidewalk. For a moment, I didn't recognize us.

A young lady in a belted peacoat and boots, her black-edged eyes peering out from underneath a shock of dark hair, was strolling next to a muscular young man. He was a head taller than her, light hair close-cropped to his head and scruffy touches of stubble rough on his jaw. I halted in the middle of the sidewalk and stared until he asked me what I was doing; I laughed, said I'd thought I saw someone I knew, and walked on.

For a moment, I had wanted to see those two reflections walking hand-in-hand. In the world of the shining windows, it made sense to see those two people link hands and walk down the street. They were like two steel links of a chain fitting together: they just seemed right. Instead, we piled into my mother's minivan, both of us grateful to get out of the freezing air. I sat slightly too close to him on the bench-seat, but he didn't seem to mind.

I didn't talk to him during the spring. I don't know why. I thought about him quite a bit, though, especially in the quiet moments just before sleep took me. I ran across him in a few of my dreams. He was never the villain, never merely an innocent bystander. He was always the one I tried to run to when my mind was collapsing, always the one I screamed to just as the roof of my mind was on the brink of caving in.

"I've got to tell you something!" I'd screech.

"What?" he'd answer, his voice drowning in the chaos surrounding us.

And then I would awaken, sweating and panting and wishing fervently that I'd had enough time to manage to get a few more words out. Sure, they were just dreams, but they were better than nothing.

Then came the night of the horrible dream, the one that made me shiver for weeks afterwards whenever I thought about it.

I was in my car driving somewhere that I knew I didn't want to be going, but I kept on going anyway because I knew that I was supposed to be there. I drove for hours, the sky above cold and iron-grey, traveling a perilous gravel road that wound progressively higher. When I finally arrove at my destination, it was then that I remembered why I'd come.

On the mailbox out in front of the house - a cabin hewn out of rough logs - I noticed a small sign. My friend's name was on the sign, scrawled next to an unfamiliar female name. Beneath that was another word.

"Wedding."

He was getting married?

I almost shoved the car into neutral and let it roll backwards down the hill. My chest was numb; my eyes were stinging with tears. But then I thought of him, knew that he was expecting me and that he might notice if I wasn't there, that he would certainly notice if my car careened down the steep incline. So I edged my car alongside a group of others, put it in park, and walked up the front steps.

He was sitting on a couch, a group of people with cameras and toothy grins surrounding him. Next to him was a girl with mousy brown hair and pale skin. She might've been pretty if one of her thin arms wasn't wrapped around his shoulders. I had a sudden impulse to walk over to him and kiss him directly on the lips just to see her delicate face contort with horror and anger. But I knew that the repercussions of my actions would affect him, so I restrained myself. Even if I didn't like this girl, it was obvious that he did. I smiled and waved at him as whole-heartedly as I could muster; he grinned and shot me one of his radiant crooked smiles.

Was there something more than friendly welcome in that smile?

I saw him again before the wedding. He was decked out in a tuxedo and shiny black shoes that creaked with newness. I was accustomed to seeing him in a ragged t-shirt, faded jeans and sneakers. Watching him, I knew that he would've much rather been in those, too, but she'd preferred him the way he was now: polished and uncomfortable.

"Hello," he said, moving stiffly in his starched dress pants.

"Hello," I answered. Behind him, in the room where the ceremony would take place, I heard the soft hum of anticipation. They were waiting for him.

"How you been?"

"Good." My mouth felt filthy as I lied to him.

"Well, that's good." He was staring earnestly at me. Was he waiting for something? What did he want from me?

I nodded, swallowing hard. He noticed.

"What's wrong?"

I shook my head furiously and stammered, "Nothing. Nothing's wrong. They're waiting for you, you know."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I know. Let 'em wait."

He stood there for a few moments, awkward in his tuxedo. I wanted more than anything to grab his hand, race out to my car and speed away from that place. I wanted to listen as gravel spurted beneath my tires, to turn the radio up high and drown out everything but the knowledge that he was in the passenger's seat and we were getting away from the cabin and the dreadful almost-pretty girl.

But I didn't. I only stood there, just as stiff as he was even though I was dressed simply and comfortably. Probably his bride would look like a princess. Probably she would clean up very well and her rodent hair would glisten as she walked down the aisle.

"Listen..." his voice trailed off.

"Yeah?"

His eyes were searching my face. I felt him trying to remove the transparent mask I was wearing, attempting to work his fingernails underneath the edges and remove it so he could see me. But he couldn't. I was steel and rough edges and brambles, determined to save him from the knowledge of my feelings. Something bitter and sharp ached in my chest, but I held my resolve. I couldn't let him know. It would hurt him.

I watched him marry her. I sat in the very back of the room apart from the other guests and watched as she minced up the aisle. She truly was a beautiful bride. Graceful and frail with flowers in her hair, she possessed a sort of beauty that I knew I could never have.

But for one brief moment, I saw him looking over her shoulder at me. We locked eyes, and I caught the trace of unsurety in his gaze. It was well-buried, yes, but it was there. My heart jolted in my chest, but I forced my lips to remain zippered as the minister led the bride and groom through their vows.

"You may now kiss your bride," the minister declared.

You may now die inside, I told myself inwardly.

When the newlyweds left the church, the groom looked at me and smiled, but it was hollow, emotionless, unforgiving. I saw only a bland facade where there had once been something vibrant and genuine.

I woke up crying. I sat up in bed with my comforter wrapped around my shoulders and locks of hair damp on my cheeks, flipped on my desk lamp and stared at my own reflection. Tendrils of salty hair wet on my forehead. Teardrops trembling on dark lashes. Small mouth chapped with bloody toothmarks on the lower lip.

When I turned off the light again, I told myself to forget about him.

"He's not worth it," I whispered over and over. "You're only seventeen and no one is supposed to mean this much to you. Not even him."

I can barely lie to other people; lying to myself was an impossible feat.

Some things affect you so deeply that there is no going back. No matter how hard you try to shake them off, they cling to you. They're the murky scents clinging to the fabric of your clothing that won't fade away no matter how much detergent you use. They are the scars on your wrists and the bitter taste in the back of your throat, the bruises in the hollows of your eyesockets and the dull pain of a fractured bone that will never fully heal. They are the pen marks on an old road map, dashes of color showing you where you've been and pulling out dusty memories every time you glance over the map's coffee-stained surface.

Just like there are some places you visit that you don't forget, there are some people you can't pass by. It took me months to realize this, but eventually I did. And when I did so, I told him how I felt. I blurted my feelings out in an uncouth and blunt way, but at least he knew.

A few nights ago, I went to the movies with him. His arm was draped around my shoulder, his hand neatly fitting into the curve of my waist; I traced patterns on his forearm with my fingertip and snuggled a little bit closer, listening to his hearbeat. It was smooth and strong and sturdy. Occasionally I would glance up at him in the cozy darkness of the movie theater. He would smile back, and I would cuddle a little closer.

I don't know if we have a future together, him and I. I don't believe in making promises or rules because promises are meant to be altered and rules are meant to be broken. Instead I choose to take things as they come, to roll with the changes.

Sometimes I go places without knowing how I'll get home. Sometimes I climb trees and wonder how on earth I'll get back down.

But then I smile.

Because what difference does it make?

Comments & reviews · 27

SkyeDragon

Review

SkyeDragon wrote a review Review · Sep 20, 2012

Wow, I loved that, beautiful. Keep it up!
MORE! Please! <3

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