Short Stories

Pricked

It was one of those days where you'd remember the things she used to say to you. You could even make out her voice telling you, "Listen, you can almost hear day breaking." But then again, she was always saying stuff like that. You often told yourself that she was the crazy one in the relationship. She was the kind of person who would jump onto the tables in bars, and somehow got everyone to sing along to the theme from "Friendly Giant". Remembering this, you smiled to yourself bitterly.

You then remembered the postcard you got from her a while ago. This was probably the reason why you were thinking about her so much today. Any other day, you'd just make up some excuse to yourself as to why your mind was so full of her. You reached over to pick up the postcard that you left on the coffee table from the day before yesterday. It was sent from Belgium. On the front, there was a picture of the Mannekin Pis, and on the back her message read: I've eaten so many chocolates I weigh two hundred pounds and you couldn't love me any more if you tried.

That was it. That was all she sent you. Not who she's with, or where she's going next. Not even when she's coming home, or a single "I love you". You felt a small prick in your chest and put the postcard back down. You recall something else she used to say to you. You close your eyes, and remember her voice.

"Listen," she used to tell you, "if you try hard enough, you can hear couples flirting with each other miles away. You can hear a man walking his dog because he had to get out of the house for some air. You can hear my mother, crocheting her days away. You can hear the scribbling of someone's writing on a crumpled piece of paper. Listen,' she would tell you, 'just concentrate."

You sit down in your chair, and glance over to the empty one beside you. Her words resonate within you. You close your eyes and concentrate. You can hear her on the other side of the world. Her laughter echoes in your ears, and that pricked feeling you had returns to your chest. It pains you to hear her laughter, because you can't be there to laugh with her. Yet you can't stop listening, because you love her laugh too much. You love her too much. And you say to yourself, somewhat hopeful that she'll be able to hear you too; "Listen," you say, "can you hear me listening?"