Selfless

"I mean, you say you love me, but who even are you?"

Her words, spoken so many times with the tone, the feeling that she had already given up, had fermented and grew rotten in my mind. But like picking a scab, opening up the old wound again and again, I clung to those ugly moments.

I typed a quick text that the bus had to pull over due to weather and we'd be staying in an old church for the night, tacked on an I love you and hit send. I should have called.

The driver poked his head up from the front of the greyhound and called out, "Ok folks, head on in. Get warm, get dry and get comfortable."

As I dodged puddles in the muddy parking lot with the dozen or so other passengers, a little hippie chick stopped and gazed up at the church with big doe eyes, "Wow, it's so beautiful! I didn't even know buildings could be that old!"

It was a stupid thing to say, and standing out in the sleet and rain, a stupid time to say it, but she was right. The church looked like some ancient cathedral, with stained glass windows and crumbling stone statues worked into the walls. All for naught, though. Nobody'll even see it out here.

A flash of lightning silhouetted the spires and peaks of the roof and the little flower child scurried after us, laughing.

Inside was as ornate, and unkempt, as the church's stone exterior. The driver sat his emergency flood light on the pulpit and we all settled into separate pews; plenty of room for all parties to spread out, and we did.

I went to a back corner, resisting the urge to look for an outlet. This place had never seen electricity.

The flower child, social butterfly, made the rounds. I pretended not to notice her flutter from one stranded passenger to the next. I'd overhear her open with a bubbly, "Hey, where you headed?" then I'd dive back into my phone.

3%.

Fine, I'll sleep.

I slipped it back in my pocket just as she came over.

"Hey, I'm Herman. Where you headed?" Beat her to it.

"Thanks for asking! I'm actually on a cross country trip to see both oceans in the same–" I quit listening, and regretted asking, then realized a moment later than I should have that she said, "How about you?"

Alright, walked into that one. I figured it would be best to let this run its course; the little butterfly would find a new flower when she realized I didn't have any sugar. "I'm meeting my wife in Breckinridge."

"Oh, fun! What are you going to do there?"

Probably argue in the snow.

She leaned back and giggled at my silence like she heard me, then slapped my knee playfully and asked again, "Why are you going?"

I took another moment, this time thinking, well, I don't even know. "It's a vacation. A ski town." Like it was obvious.

"Do you ski?"

"No."

"Does she?"

"No."

A crack of lightning lit the room. And her. I caught my eyes wandering. She noticed, too.

She giggled again and rested her head against the back of the pew. "You could have taken your wife anywhere on vacation. Why brick-and-whatever?" She squinted those big, dumb moon eyes at me.

Why?

For an instant, I felt like she saw that hole in me, the same one my wife never seemed to miss. "I guess we're just having— we just need a— you know."

She sat up and looked around like she was collecting all the profound words she knew. I had pretty low expectations, but at the same time, she seemed… perfect.

"I'll give you some advice." Her tone changed. All the bubbles were gone. "I-Love-You." She raised a finger with each word, then nodded and held up just the first finger. "The I comes first, right? Your wife doesn't want a big vacation. She wants you." She pointed that finger at me like a gun, then shot, "Who are you?"

Thunder rolled. Something inside me echoed it.

"What are you doing lady?" It came out too harsh. I thought she'd run. I hoped she'd run. Instead, she flashed a grin, winked, then stood and stretched like a lazy cat.

She began to leave, but stopped, as if to let me know she'd go when and where she pleased, then said, "You want to do nice things for her. That's good. That's selfless. But love needs more than that. Be a little selfish. Be you. Be somebody she can love." The presumptuous little angel reached out and mushed my hair like she wasn't the dumb hippie that fawned over a stupid old building in the sleet and rain, then she fluttered away to the next flower.

I checked my phone, out of habit.

1%

I put it away and laid back on the hardwood pew. Be Selfish? What does she know about love? I thumbed my ring and thought of the mortgage. I thought of the credit card bills. Be selfish? What?

What about all the lunches I skip so we can pay the bills? All the bills! The dog food? Cat food? Cat litter? I do the dishes! I cook!

The driver clicked his emergency light off and the church went dark, except for the occasional flash of lightning.

It's never enough.

I slept, and boy did I dream. That little flower child had danced her way into my mind and wouldn't leave.

I woke up. The rain had stopped. Daylight lit the church. I sat up. The room was empty. Don't panic.

Went outside. The bus was gone. Don't panic.

I'm sure I panicked. I don't remember now. It's been two days, I'm halfway to death and it's snowing.

I'm not panicking anymore.

I'm just thinking about my wife. And love. I'm wondering who I am, who I ever was, and I'm fading away.

Alone.