La Finale (pt. 1 of unknown)
(drabble series)
Dear,
This will be the last letter I ever write to you. As I sit here, determined to find some closure in this letter, I have resolved: this is the last time you will ever hear from me.
It isn’t your fault. It isn’t you, but it isn’t me either. Your memory lingers, I hope you know that. I hope you know that in every shadow of whim, every turn of the block, every smile, every couple holding hands, I see you. And I remember you. How could I not remember these things? It was always the little things that held you to me the most. It was the smallest of things that compelled me to love you. I use that word, ‘compelled,’ with a sober diction. It is hurtful to use it, for it makes everything that I thought we stood for seem forced. To compel myself to love you was not my choice. It was on accident, on purpose, by swift action, by some other force of nature that no one really has control over.
If I could have picked, if I could have chosen specifically who I would love, I am not sure I would have chosen you. 7 years and counting was quite some time, though, and it was quite a ride. I enjoyed the things we shared and even the things you chose not to share with me. Looking back, I enjoy it all. I regret it all.
It was nice knowing you.
Sincerely,
undersigned
(pt. 2 of unknown)
There was a girl with bright hair sitting in a dark car with dark windows in a dark place. The clouds were dark, the gate her car was parked in front of was dark, and even her sunglasses were dark. It did not matter: it fit the occasional well. She knew where she was going, where she was supposed to be (exactly where she was not). She knew the past and dreamt for the future.
The leather of her seats were black, her coat was black, and her nails were painted black. It suited her.
The night was awfully clear as she pulled out of her driveway, past the dark gate and onto the night road. Unbelievable cold it was for her as she sped off; she left a tall building behind her. The building had many windows, and pressed up against the glass of one of these windows was a woman.
She had dark, dark hair and an odd expression. A soft smile formed on her pale lips as the moonlight illuminated her delicate face and the dark car sped away. She would go back to bed and pretend to sleep until her other returned, like she did every night. She would pretend to sleep because it would make her other happy. She thought love meant making somebody happy. She didn’t know making somebody happy didn’t require any love at all.
yes, happy happy. Be happy, indeed.
Fog began rolling in from somewhere, converging somewhere.
But she couldn’t know from where. They couldn’t know to where.
La Finale (pt. 3 of unknown)
There was a moan from the woman who had taken off her dark clothes and dark sunglasses. It was perhaps 3, 4, in the morning. She was lying on the bed and there was someone hovering on top of her. A man.
Their bodies were tangled like cords, like strings often tangle when left to tangle for too long. She gasped, he breathed. Hard. Deeply. Exhaling, inhaling.
Bodies rising together, in motion, in parallel. They weren't wearing very much at all.
"Jessica," he breathed after he rolled off her body, "Don't leave."
