The Cruelty of Women

"James? James, is that you?"

He never thought he’d have to hear that voice again—that tinkling, dainty tyranny he managed to forget. He stops for a moment and breathes, partially hoping for it just to be a figment of his imagination, but somewhere deep down, he hopes for it to be true.

Please, let it be true.

He turns then and catches sight of the tall girl sprinting towards him. Her tea (Earl Grey, perhaps. He remembers that’s what she liked) sloshes on her fingers.

“It is you! I saw your jacket, and I knew it had to be you!”

Okay, so maybe he did have this jacket a little longer than anyone should, but did she have to say it? Did she really? Even so, he fixes a smile tight enough to crack and says in the most cheerful voice he can manage, “Hey! How’s it going?”

But she doesn’t answer his question (not that he cared, anyway). She fiddles with her phone in one hand and licks the tea off of the other, kind of looking at him but kind of not. She never did. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever!” Forever is a bit of a stretch. “How long has it been? Seven years?”

Five, actually, but it isn’t like he’s been keeping track. He nods anyway and shakes the hand extended to him, wondering where else it had been other than her tongue.

“Oh my God, I’ve just got to tell the others about this. Have you been speaking to them? What have you been up to, anyway? Are you still writing that book?”

No, he hasn’t been writing that book, but it’s better than admitting he has done nothing since then, so he nods. “Yeah, it’s going.”

“That’s great, James! Man, you look good!”

He looks like shit—he knows this. Her voice always gets higher near the end when she lies; sort of like a squeak. But of course, it isn’t like he paid attention to it. It’s something anyone could notice, right?

“You mind if we take a picture? Michelle wants a picture. God, she’s going to crap rocks when she sees this.”

She should know he hates pictures. He stands there for a moment, dumbfounded and waiting for that moment when she says, right, sorry, I forgot you don’t like this sort of thing, but it never comes. Instead, she moves beside him and weaves her arm through his (like they used to do before), and he gets a whiff of that apple and cinnamon perfume he knows so well. He bought a bottle for her once, but he doesn’t think she ever used it. He knows she never did.

Her smile is wider than it should be, and he tries to match it, but all that comes out is a lopsided grin. Messy. She moves away and her eyes are back on that phone again, looking, and looking, and looking until she says, “It looks great!”

Another squeak.

“I was actually on my way to an appointment. I’m seeing a planner named Debbie. You know her? Her office is right across from that little record shop you used to work at—oh, Michelle loves the picture! Did you change your number? She wants to hit you up. In fact, I haven’t been able to contact you in ages—”

“My phone’s been broken for a while,” he says, even though it hasn’t. His number’s been the same for years. “But wait, Debbie? Isn’t she a wedding planner?”

“Oh, right, you didn’t hear! Matt and I are getting married! Isn’t it amazing? I would’ve sent you an invitation but I couldn’t reach you—”

Married? She’s getting married?

“—and I asked the others, but they didn’t know where you’ve been either—”

Who the hell would marry her? And why him? Isn’t Matt the same one who knew of her hatred of musicals, yet took her out to the Sound of Music that one Christmas? Isn’t Matt the same guy who bought her macadamia nut cookies even though she’s allergic? Isn’t Matt the one who didn’t take her out for dinner on her twenty-second birthday, so he had to close the shop early (and get shit from his boss), just so they could watch old re-runs of the Fresh Prince?

But it’s been five years. Five full fucking years, so it shouldn’t matter to him anymore. It really shouldn’t. She’s still talking, still fiddling with her phone, and all he can do is watch her, wondering what the hell he’d done so bad for her to reappear this crappy morning.

“Anyway, I’m already two minutes late. I really hope you can make it. It’s in a year, so maybe I’ll see you again before then? Man, it was great seeing you, James. Really. We all thought you probably died or something!”

She laughs at her own joke, so it’s only natural he should laugh too. But he can’t. Instead, he smiles even though he heard that squeak.

They shake hands again even though shaking hands was never their thing, and he watches her as she fast walks down the sidewalk, still fiddling with her phone. He wonders if leaving ever made much difference to her as it did for him, and if she ever thought of him before today. But the thing is, he knows the answers to those questions already, so he really shouldn’t be wasting time wondering. There’s no point to it.

As he turns and starts walking down the opposite side, shoes scrapping against the cracked pavement, James thinks hell, being dead doesn’t sound half bad at all.

Dainty tyranny = reference to Friend of my Youth.