The Wanting Guest

The Wanting Guest

         I didn't mean to walk down that street. Ha, you won't believe that. I know I don't. Of course I meant to, I am the one who went down that way. But I didn't mean to want to walk down there that night. I didn't want to at all.

         What a chilling portrait. You probably imagine me strolling down a dark one lane road, trees looming overhead with coyotes yapping in the distance, some drawing closer. Or maybe if you're a city dweller, your mind jumped to a different place. A potholed riddled road going through the wrong part of town. Single street light flickering, as the trees and coyotes are replaced with towering buildings and the sounds of sirens that are too close for comfort. Either way, you'd be wrong. Sorry to be so blunt about it, but not everything you see on TV is true. I live in a large town, but nothing close to a city. I had buildings on either side of me, but the tallest was no more than three stories. Unless of course you count the church steeple, which I guess you could. Hell, I was even walking on the sidewalk! Not lumbering down the middle of the road, bloody machete in hand, trailing sparks as it drags along the broken asphalt. Even the streetlights worked, except for the one in front of the corner mart, but that one had been out for weeks. Other than that corner, the street was cast in the orange electric glow of unnatural lighting. But that night, that street was dark for me. It had been for a year now, day or night, that block was empty of everything for me. As hollow as I was, I avoided it as much as I could, but not that night. That night, I stopped, steadied myself, filled my head with regrets, and stepped over the curb into the darkness.

         Maybe you'd like to know where I was heading that night. Why I was venturing down a way that so clearly pained me. I was going to see my ex-wife, and her new boyfriend, and all of our "mutual" old friends that don't feel so goddamn mutual when they're laughing at me and judging me behind my hunched back. I was going to pay them a visit, drop in on the little party she had so thoughtfully emailed me about two nights prior. Her email so full of hidden worry and condescension. I had stared numbly at the screen for over an hour before replying a short, "I'll be there." I drank myself into an oblivion that night. Drank until I couldn't feel, which was a surprising amount considering how devoid of emotion I had been lately, and then I walked. I stalked up and down town, keeping to myself as I was accustomed to, feeling tears running down my face but not knowing where they were coming from. I don't remember coming home that night, but I must have because I woke up in bed, traces of tears still etched on my face.

         Not even halfway down the street and I had to stop. Here. It had been here we had met, almost nine years ago. This tidy little bookstore that she owns. Of course I didn't know that then. I just thought she was as much a regular there as I was. I write, or I guess wrote, for the only paper in town, and words have always been my passion. Whether I was putting them down on paper or absorbing someone else's. I relished them. And I guess that's why I'm writing this down. I find solace in it. A hidden peace that could only be discovered when you take the time to create. Something I haven't done in a long time. I saw her there and I thought she was beautiful, I wanted to talk, so I dropped a book on her foot and away we went. A little over two years later and we were married. A little over five years after that and we were divorced and she now ran this place with her boyfriend. How many times I had thought of smashing the windows of this place. Of taking all the books and tearing out the pages. Hurting the things she loved, just as she had hurt me. But that night I just stopped and gazed through the windows I had never broken. Minutes passed before I tore myself away and continued down that street.

         She hadn't wanted a divorce right away. At least that's what she said. She said she had tried to make things better and I just didn't see it. Didn't see the hurt that was present. But after she left I felt the hurt she was talking about. I lived that pain everyday for the past 492 days I had walked around with nothing but the pain inside. She hadn't cheated on me. But she did love someone else, or at least thought she did. All she knew is that she didn't love me. I loved her. I loved her and I let her go away. Hating her as much as I hated myself. Hating him, for being there when I wasn't. I was empty on the inside. Leaving the house we had shared, I moved into a small apartment, per recently divorced guy code, and I filled it with my loathing. I lied when I said this street was dark for me, all of the world had lost its light. This street was just the center of it all. Here was her store, the paper where I used to work. Yes used to. It's tough to keep a job when you walk around with an emptiness inside. The only thing I had a plethora of, was hatred. Hatred at myself, hatred at everyone. You know how most towns have that one guy that you hear things about? That one guy that seems a little off. I was him. Anyone could see it if they looked at me. The days got longer as did my hair. My back hunched and I didn't take full strides anywhere except to the liquor store. And my unshaven face was home to eyes that had nothing inside. No hope, anger, sadness, or fear. Looking into my eyes was akin to looking into the eyes of a man already dead. Somebody just hadn't closed mine for me yet and laid coins atop them. She did this to me. This street does this to me. And of course at the end of this street, past the stores, once you get into the houses, is where she lives. That's where I was headed that night.

         Now do you see why I didn't want to go down there that night? I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't even stop to look at the building where I once worked. The place that was so prominent in my life, my shining accomplishment, until it threw me out on the street just as my wife had. I knew it would engulf me. I was already so low, the tipping point had been reached and I ran, practically sprinted to her door and I stopped. I stopped and I stared and I waited, waited for the pain to go away but it wasn't. My shallow breaths audible only to me, conflicting with the music and voices I heard seeping out from the house that lay before me. So much happiness in there and I had none of it. She had done it. She had found the trick for happiness and I had lived in squalor, my squalor for over a year. My pain was my life and here was hers. Her happy life, just a door away. I grasped the iron railing and pulled myself up the stairs. One, two, three steps and I was at the door. My breathing hadn't gotten any better as I stood there, hand afraid to move. To knock. My pain, her happiness, maybe they should be kept separate. I reached out and knocked, heard the collective lowering and then rising of noise from inside. The door opened and there she was. The woman who had done this to me. I stared, mind moving too slowly. And then I reached out and I grabbed her. I grabbed her and pulled her close, and embraced her. "I missed you." I whispered into her ear. She pulled back, looked up with a smile, and pulled me inside. The door closed behind me and I didn't look back. I knew what was out there, what was behind me. My pain, my hurt, was out there on the curb. Out there where I left it. I chose to be here, inside. I chose to be happy.