In Hindsight

         Death. It had always seemed like one of the things that happened to other people; in movies or books to drive the storyline; to kids I didn’t know well in school, and whose deaths always warranted an insincere moment of silence when first announced over that crackling intercom. It happened to the sick and the elderly, to the diseased and misfortunate of other countries, cities, or continents. That’s what it was. It certainly didn’t pertain to me or the invincibility of my quickly fading youth, and yet here I am staring it in the face.

         Actually, I’m not staring at death; I’m staring at an approaching rock quarry’s floor, and oddly enough it’s coming at me with all the speed of a legless marathon runner.

         Well, not really. Surely, as any onlooker can see, I’m falling the eight or so meters per second that physics insists I will, but this is not how it's being played out in my mind. Instead, like some sick cosmic joke played by the anonymous architect of the universe, under the pen name of “God”, I have been afforded a few more minutes of “mind time” to sift through the random events of my life and feel good or bad about whichever of them I choose to review, all the while knowing that they are long gone and future events aren’t to be downloaded to the memory system in my brain. Thanks a lot “God”!

         So the first memory to be put on the ol’ cerebral reel-to-reel is of her, of course. The lights are dim at the restaurant where she works; and the walls are an old, weathered looking wood. In that darkness, her skin seems to glow against the blue, button-down blouse that she wears; her charcoal hair contrasting perfectly well with it. She is, in essence, a painting just waiting to be realized. I should have been the one to paint it. But I didn’t.

         And so we switch to our first date, later that night, in the parking lot of an old community park. The winter stars are surely sprinkled across the night sky but, from our viewpoint, they’re simply outshined by the phosphorescent streetlights that illuminate the pavement and outer layers of pine trees. Our breath is visible and our clothes are thick, layered to guard against the frigid January winds. I see her face, it's warm features, her nose turned up ever-so-slightly, and her soft, brown eyes. Her eyes disappear every few seconds under their delicate lids, accented with perfect lashes. Her mouth moves in slow motion, her blinking follows suit; her breathing slows. I should’ve kissed her right then. But I didn’t.

         On to our first fight; a little spat about something I can barely remember. The yelling doesn’t escalate to screaming; there is no resentment behind either tone, and the argument lasts mere seconds. It is followed by laughter, a long embrace, sweet and sincere lovemaking, another embrace, and peaceful slumber. We should’ve stopped fighting right there. But we didn’t.

         A bottle in my hand, turned up to my mouth until only a residue of thin foam is left sliding towards its neck; another bottle being opened, with her looking on in disgust. She sits on a picnic table rifling through a deck of cards which she uses to deal herself another hand of solitaire. Every once in a while she glances up to see me slurring words and laughs with friends that she wished I didn’t have; except for one. And he’s standing right behind me, glancing up at her ever so often. Their eyes meet. I should’ve spent more time with her than I did drinking and carousing. But I didn’t.

         There’s me; my heart on my sleeve and in shreds. There’s her telling me that she can’t help the way that she feels about him; telling me that I should have paid more attention to her. I’m telling her that I will, and she is simply shaking her head. And I'm as stoic as my pride will allow; but her? Large tears flow freely from her eyes. Some run identical paths over her cheeks and down her chin, others take their own route. She turns away from me and walks out the door. I should’ve moved on. But I couldn’t.

         A phone held up to my ear, I dial her number again. I hear her pick up on the other end and answer with anger and frustration. She wants to know what I want and so I tell her. I just want us to be back together; to forget our past mistakes and work things out. She tells me that she didn’t make any mistakes. She tells me to stop calling. She hangs up. I should’ve stopped calling. But I couldn't.

         And there’s the quarry. A deep rut of rock in the red clay, deeper than anything should be in Georgia, but there nonetheless. She’s telling me that maybe we can work things out, and I’m smiling. It’s bright outside, but the weather’s beginning to turn cold again. She looks down at her feet, attached to sandals that show her painted toes. I tell her that it’s too cold for the sandals, and she agrees, but points my attention to something on the quarry floor; seventy feet down. Leaning over to get a better view, I hear a rush of footsteps from behind me and slowly turn to see him, barreling from behind a tree, to place his thick hands into my shoulder and push with enough force to make the vessels in his neck bulge, if only for a second. I feel myself float over the edge like so much waterfall ammunition. Damn-it! I should’ve fucking moved out of the way.But I didn't.