I never realized how short I was next to him. I only reach his shoulder and even on my tippy-toes I only reach a little above his ear.
It’s 2a.m. and no one’s out on the streets except us. We’re running and hopping across the street. He hops twice and I hop once. He runs back to where I am and we take a hop together. Two more and we burst out laughing. I’m laughing so hard my stomachs hurting, but he’s stopped without me realizing it.
He takes my hand and with the other gently wraps it around my waist. He begins to swing side to side and I along with him. There’s no music but now he’s whispering into my ear. Now he’s singing.
“——— was her name, and only for one brief moment, she fell into my lap, it seemed she had everything I wanted in a girl. She danced like a wanted angel, she danced to the beat of my heart. Whoa-oa-oa whoa-woa-oa…bum-dabum-bum-bum-bum-bum…”
I lean into his chest and I hear his heart beat. It goes bum-badum-bum-bum-bum-bum.
Then like a deer caught in the headlight, a vintage ford mustang races toward us. He pushes me and I land on the pavement hitting my head on the curb. All goes black.
—
My head is throbbing and I wake up to find myself back in my dark gray cubicle-sized bedroom. I check my cellphone and it’s 5:30a.m. It was just a bad dream I tell myself.
I go to my call list and dial his number. I just want to hear his voice.
No one picks up and it goes to voicemail. As I’m waiting for his ridiculously long message to finish I notice that my room is an utter mess. There are piles of clothing on the ground, containers of barely touched food, cups and cups of cold tea, and about a dozen newspapers and photos clumped into one chaotic mess on my desk. I jump off my bed and almost slip landing on a cotton shirt. I walk over to my desk with my phone clamped between my ear and shoulder looking at the newspaper clippings and photos. I recognize the ones I adore of him and I on our trip to London and the one at my favorite coffee shop in New York City. Mixed amongst my happy memories are dirty newspaper articles of a car accident two weeks ago.
“Couple Separated In Hit And Run”, “Young Man Killed, Young Woman Survives”, “Family Mourns Loss of Youngest Son”…
I hear the beep through the phone as it drops to the cold tiled floor. Next to all these headlines are photos of him.
© estalement 2008
