The Stranger

Chapter 8

Then next time I see Lorenzo we meet at the univeristy bookstore.  He already looks like a stranger in the distance, reading Plato's Republic.  When he sees me, he looks worried about me, it angers me.  How can he care about me when he doesn't know me?  I don't know if this anger is real or because I know I have to break up with him because of you.

Are you okay?  he asks.  You look pale.  He tries to put a hand to my cheek, but I push it away.

No, I say, I'm fine.  I've just had a lot of grading to do.

Okay, fine, I didn't mean to pry.

Can we talk in private?

Sure, there is a table over in the cafe.

I don't know why I feel so sad when just yesterday I'd been so filled with warmth and possibility around him.

The rain, the wind, the trees, everything looks like props to a sad movie in which I'm about to play the role of my life.

I tell him I'm sorry but things aren't working out.

What isn't working out? he asks.

This whole thing, I say.  I just need you to give me the words.

What words?

The words I need to break the curse?

What curse?  What are you talking about?

Don't play stupid.

Really, Anne, I don't know what you're talking about.

Fuck you, then, I say, and turn to walk back to my car.  I'm crying. 

I can feel him staring at me in silence. 

I can't stop myself from walking away. 

I walk out of the cafe, past his motorcycle parked on the street, and right back to my car where I get inside, and drive away, crying, for some reason I don't understand, and wondering why I listened to you.  I push your number on my cell phone, but it's a your voice recording:  Hello it's me.  Thank you for calling.  I will get back to you at my earliest possible convenience.