Which Way From Here - page 4
Filed in:
Chapter One
Written By:
Jacob Martinez San Antonio,
TX
The breath forms a cloud of moisture in the crisp air as I sit down at the tiny desk where I do my writing. “Why is it so cold in here?” I scribble on the blank page, “Why is it always so cold?”. Most people find it comfortable enough in their own homes to be able to talk to themselves when they’re alone, but not me. Maybe it’s the fact that this isn’t my home, just the place where I sleep, that does it to me, but I’ve never found myself able to think out loud here; which accounts for all the writing. I come home, sit here in the little alcove where I’ve shoved the desk and write, mostly about nothing, but that nothingness leads to the work I’ve mentioned earlier. “Writing begets writing”, as they say.
“This party—Anna’s party. Should I go, should I not go? Knot go. Should I, should I?” The words begin to fill the page, nonsense at first, I told you, but I always make it a point to write on paper as if I’m writing something formal. Always from top to bottom, keeping within the margins, always.
“Anna’s house. Anna’s old house. I remember that house, red brick, green neatly trimmed lawn. Her father used to work endlessly on that lawn, and his car. Anna’s Mom used to joke that he loved his car and that lawn more than he loved them, only joking of course, but I wonder if deep down she actually believed it. I used to go to her house often when we were together, and by often I mean that when I went I didn’t need to knock, they never kept the door locked and allowed me to just waltz right in and join them on the couch if they were watching TV, or the dinner table if they were eating. It was a wonder that we ever got togeth—“.
Wait a minute, why would Anna just invite me to a fucking party out of the blue like this? That’s hardly her style. Just another feel sorry for Dave thing I suppose. Right after it happened, friends I didn’t know I had; family I never talked to, or wanted to talk to, began treating me like a child who’d just fallen and hurt himself. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to take me out, cheer me up, everyone knew what was best for me. Everyone but me. The requests that I go out for a night on the town had dwindled over time. It had gotten to the point that I was finally feeling content that they’d taken the hint. That I didn’t want to forget, forget about Michelle about the baby, I didn’t want to meet someone new, or put myself back “out on the market”.
Now Anna’s joining the game? Out of all the people to try to console me after it happened, Anna was never one of them. She knew. She knew that no matter what we’d been through together, how much we may have loved each other back then, that Michelle was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Anna respected that, and I was grateful for it too. Sometimes when things like this happen, you just need someone to talk to, an old friend, like Anna, and sometimes, you know it’s better not to.
The breath forms a cloud of moisture in the crisp air as I sit down at the tiny desk where I do my writing. “Why is it so cold in here?” I scribble on the blank page, “Why is it always so cold?”. Most people find it comfortable enough in their own homes to be able to talk to themselves when they’re alone, but not me. Maybe it’s the fact that this isn’t my home, just the place where I sleep, that does it to me, but I’ve never found myself able to think out loud here; which accounts for all the writing. I come home, sit here in the little alcove where I’ve shoved the desk and write, mostly about nothing, but that nothingness leads to the work I’ve mentioned earlier. “Writing begets writing”, as they say.
“This party—Anna’s party. Should I go, should I not go? Knot go. Should I, should I?” The words begin to fill the page, nonsense at first, I told you, but I always make it a point to write on paper as if I’m writing something formal. Always from top to bottom, keeping within the margins, always.
“Anna’s house. Anna’s old house. I remember that house, red brick, green neatly trimmed lawn. Her father used to work endlessly on that lawn, and his car. Anna’s Mom used to joke that he loved his car and that lawn more than he loved them, only joking of course, but I wonder if deep down she actually believed it. I used to go to her house often when we were together, and by often I mean that when I went I didn’t need to knock, they never kept the door locked and allowed me to just waltz right in and join them on the couch if they were watching TV, or the dinner table if they were eating. It was a wonder that we ever got togeth—“.
Wait a minute, why would Anna just invite me to a fucking party out of the blue like this? That’s hardly her style. Just another feel sorry for Dave thing I suppose. Right after it happened, friends I didn’t know I had; family I never talked to, or wanted to talk to, began treating me like a child who’d just fallen and hurt himself. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to take me out, cheer me up, everyone knew what was best for me. Everyone but me. The requests that I go out for a night on the town had dwindled over time. It had gotten to the point that I was finally feeling content that they’d taken the hint. That I didn’t want to forget, forget about Michelle about the baby, I didn’t want to meet someone new, or put myself back “out on the market”.
Now Anna’s joining the game? Out of all the people to try to console me after it happened, Anna was never one of them. She knew. She knew that no matter what we’d been through together, how much we may have loved each other back then, that Michelle was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Anna respected that, and I was grateful for it too. Sometimes when things like this happen, you just need someone to talk to, an old friend, like Anna, and sometimes, you know it’s better not to.
