The Crack

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
What seemed like a moment to me, was a life time of choices to her. And there is never a right choice.

Submitted: June 04, 2017

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Submitted: June 04, 2017

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She threw her long brown curls over her shoulder, smiling at his joke. I could hear them giggling from three aisles away, something about a dog wearing glasses. It was young, innocent humor. As they stand in front of the linguine selection, he begins telling her the story of spaghetti. Not made for meaty sauces, he says, rigatoni far better for such, he elaborates. I find her attention drifting. Her smile turns into a page of speechlessness as someone catches her eye from across the hall. His dark hair and eyes fill the air with a thick substance of judgement, resentment and yet, absolute desire. The time stands still for nothing but a second. My phone rings. Her boyfriend drops the pasta. But she is lingering. What seems like a meaningless moment to me, is a lifetime to her. The sound of wind blowing through the spring grass takes over the silence. A light breeze on her fingertips and along comes a loud laughter, a young girl, her dark eyes, his crooked smile. She trips in the fresh dew, staining her blue jeans. Another child, a young boy runs after her with a boxing glove on one hand, an arrow in the other. He would protect her through all pain and darkness. The boy’s black eyes shine of pride as he looks at his little sister and admires the flower crown in her hair.The light in her voice sends chills down my spine as she grabs the frozen man’s hand pulling him closer to his beauty. He stops. The girl disappears somewhere in the fruits aisles, followed by her brother, they are left with the quiet reminder of things that could have been. And there they stand, mutely acknowledging the sound of their past. All color and life leaves her eyes as she takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes wider as to ask a question, as to offer her one last time, the life she wants, the love she deserves, the touch she craves, the freedom to put her heart in his hands. She, in visible pain of hurting him, comes back to life, knowing her impossible situation and lifts her head. 

 

“You stalking me now, Ramos?” 

 

Pasta man looks up in surprise, laughs and puts his hand around her waist. Her cold, foreign waist. Her secret, across the hall lowers his head in disappointment as he tells himself, some puzzle pieces get lost. And as he turns to go back to a lonely, empty life of work and sleep, he hears a crack. It was not the first time he had heard it, it was a familiar sound. He goes on, his hands in his pockets, his path open for another try to find love in the dirt. She on the other hand, still mute and frozen, heard the crack. It was her crack. Her eyes bleed. Her mouth bleeds. Blood covers her hands and face. Her boyfriend grabs the cart and suggest they head to the next aisle, but she doesn’t move. Soon the aisle is filled with blood, it floods the floor, the shelves and the carts and she lets it. She watches it leave her. The blood of a lost love, a ruined silence of hope, a broken promise of happiness.

I answer my phone and the speakers play the same old 70’s music. I must get home to my husband. He is making asparagus and I wouldn’t miss that for that world.


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