Writing

The Neverending Story

Journaling • November 24, 2006


Rachael popped her head in and asked if I had any kids movies she could borrow. I don’t. We were both hot because we only had one air-conditioner and it was on the other side of our house. I was sitting on my bed reading distro considerations; she just wanted to fall asleep to something lighthearted.

An hour later I walked past the basement door and noticed the lights on. We both keep boxes in storage down there, so I head on down to offer help in her VHS search.

Instead, I find her shooting a bb gun into the brick basement wall.

I sit on the floor next to a half-opened box and we talk in the musty basement – old exposed bricks, dusty pipes and cobwebs – about the new house we put a bid on, and finding roommates, and relationshits.

We talk about being lonely, together, as she fires another round into the wall.

She tells me about her ex that she’s thinking about getting back together with. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t really a good guy either. He was steady.

I tell her about my new crush and why it’s all in my head and there’s no way that she could heart me too. I tell her about how carefully I choose my words when writing to the crush. And how silly it all is. Silly everywhere but in my heart – which skips a beat when Rachael puts another round into the wall. Then silence.

Our conversations always end awkwardly. Like the first pause lasting more than ten seconds is the sign to end it. So we do.


Notes

Originally published in Pressed Between the Pages #2.


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