Alone

I hate public places; everybody looking at you, staring at you. As if they could see your entire pathetic story, read it, laugh, and spit it back in your face. I don’t need that. I don’t want it. I just want to be alone.

He was so nice to her, at the beginning. He’d call her to wish her well, call her to say she was beautiful. Looking into her eyes, he would see the gentle spirit of a soul who has not yet learned to fly, and she, looking into his, would see a gentleman who had the world at his feet. He would take her out for nights on the city, opening her door as he let her into his sports car. And they reveled late into the night as if there were no tomorrow. They had chemistry. They were always together, always.

Man, life is crazy! One minute your dreams are coming through and with the next tick-tock you’re in the gutter, oozing right along with the worms and last week’s leftovers in the refuse of grand society. And the worms aren’t even friendly. I’ve always hated worms. Even when we went fishing, I could never stand to poke the hook through the squiggling worms. Jimmy always did that. To gross me out. And the stupid worms couldn’t even swim away—no, the barbed end made too painful. I really hate worms. Gross, slimy things that eat dirt, poop it out, and eat it again. I never ever want to see another worm.

He took her to meet his friends: loud, beautiful people. The women took her in like a stranded cat. They improved her by introducing her at clubs and parlors hidden away for those who can pay for them. They most generously advised her to restock her wardrobe with the clothes they themselves liked to wear. She had never lived such exciting weeks.

Look at this day. Did you ever see such a lovely day? The sun is shining, a breeze is blowing, birds are singing, people are enjoying the walk. Right. The clouds hang low and it’s raining and hailing little bullets. The screeching birds and hurried people are taunting the worms as they rush on with their lives. Everyone is so busy they barely even see each other.

Things got busy for him at work. He couldn’t take her out so often. He still loved her, he said, he just couldn’t spend as much time with her. Her new friends grew busy, too. Their lives were so full of important dates and appointments that they couldn’t possibly swing by to pick her up. It was perfectly explainable.

But not here. Time is so still that it aches as it crawls. Right next to me, head sunk onto his shoulders, he does his crossword. Must be his fifteen hundredth one. Friends probably all died and he figures he’ll go soon. Will he miss it, I wonder?

Across the path, she’s listening to music. On headphones. Wow, maybe it makes her feel young and hip. Maybe the nifty headset covers the fact that her precious life is aging away with her graying head. Some precious life, spending it here. This is not the grand junction for meeting today’s elite.

Her nights grew long again. The lights burnt out in her apartment and she spent her evenings in the window, face against the cold glass, staring into the rain. He never called. She didn’t miss a call, no, because she was always waiting for it.

Oh, look on that bench; she has her friend with her. Some good that does. She’s uncovering her secret hopes and despairs and her friend is watching a leaf blow across the path. Some friend. Hey, maybe I should make friends with her so I can be tasted and chewed up and spit upon the cement. Maybe it would be nice to have somebody shove my little heart into a paper shredder to see what happens. Again.

So much time waiting and her grades were slipping. Slipping and falling off a cliff. In a last attempt to save her face before the world, she spent her nights at the library, trying to catch and recover wasted time. He would call, she was sure, and be proud when he heard how she struggled and triumphed.

I love public places. What a crazy conglomeration of disappointed and worthless lives. Come on, if you ever want to feel like the loneliest piece of crud on earth, go to a nice little park and sit and cry. No one will notice. After all, you’re just another little worm. Even if they stick a hook through you, you’ll wriggle and bleed for a long time before your heart really stops.

It wasn’t supposed to be a rainy day, but she wandered into a coffee house and saw them. He, with his arm possessively around a blonde whose showy dress barely covered her lap. They were whispering and crooning to each other. She stared at them, not trusting her eyes. She took a step forward to make sure.

I hate public places. Public is such a cold and unfeeling adjective. It means inconsiderate, and not private. Common. It makes you small and worthless because, after all, you are only one of the public. In fact, if the public is big enough, they won’t see you at all.

He glanced up and his eyes met hers. In them no light, no recognition, no shame. They just meandered slowly back to the girl on his lap. She heard someone laugh.

The ground is hard and cold. I don’t want to be a worm.