She isn’t real.
I know that.
But she was real once.
I’m not so far out there you can’t appreciate what I’m saying.
You’ve lost people. You’ve let them go, once and for all, only to discover that letting go is impossible. That those people are going to come back, in whatever way they decide you need them to. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
Maybe they come back in your children. In the way they rebel or strive to be perfect. The way they pronounce a certain word or laugh at your jokes.
Maybe they come back in nature. In the roar of the ocean or the quiet of a first snowfall. The charge in the air before a thunderstorm. Or a hornet sting.
They come back in the taste of your food, when it’s done just right, and in the songs you put on to remember them. And the ones you put on to help you forget.
She comes back in the afternoon, mid-summer, Friday. Always Friday.
Friday afternoons are my low point. The point in my week when I can’t give any more. To my job, to my family, to my friends—or what’s left of them. The point when my mind shuttles me down a dark corridor of doubt and bitterness and fear and I want to let it take me—every time I want to sink, further and further, into the dark until I disappear.
But she won’t let me.
She throws open the curtains and lets in the blinding afternoon sun, drags me to my feet and across the floor.
We never needed music to dance. At least she never did.
She twirls around me, conjuring a breeze—an eclipse each time she passes in front of my eyes. She says a word in a certain way, and I crack a joke to protect myself from the inevitable. That she’s going to pull me up. Up and out of the dark and into the roar of her spirit, the quiet of her mind, the charge of her heart against mine.
Then comes the sting.
The sun passes behind a cloud. The air stills and the room darkens.
But I don’t let go.
I keep her fingertips in mine. I keep the taste of her. Just right. And the feel of her, dancing me out of the dark.
I put on a song.
One that makes me remember. Because I don’t want to forget.
The sun breaks through the clouds and I’m dancing—like an idiot—alone in my apartment on a Friday afternoon. Mid-summer.
I’m real.
She isn’t.
But we were real once.
I know that.
This is a great story! It provoked strong emotions in me.
Looking forward to seeing what you cook up for the Field Research/Stock Fiction crossover event of the century.