Part II of New Beginnings, a short story beginning here.
I was going to have a fresh start in Montreal. Going to the bus depot was just the beginning, yet fear spidered through me icicle-slow, trickling through my extremities. I didn’t know what I was going to tell my employer. How do you explain the sudden impulse to move away from everything you know and everyone you love? How do you explain a late-night tarot reading at a dimly lit bar being enough to convince you to buy a bus ticket? My manager was bound to call and demand why I wasn’t on time for my shift.
If my lover–I guess my ex-lover–called, I would just ignore the phone. Ignore it like an old, broken television set. No use burdening myself with it. I had tried to fix it. I had tried fixing it for years, but all I got was static.
I can’t even recall what I said to her in the letter. I might have made vague mentionings about discovering myself. I might have made insincere promises to return, but I begged her not to hold a lantern to every stranger’s face to compare them to my own.
My hands no longer resembled mine, and my bus ticket was growing limp from the sweat that slicked its surface.
Did a runaway ever look beautiful?
I pictured Vee, my lovely Vee, if she was planning to run, she’d wear her black sneakers, the ones with the hidden lyrics – black on black, but there if you looked closely enough. She’d wear a short, white mink coat, the one she saved for special occasions, a ratty band shirt, and a pair of cigarette jeans.
She’d look cool.
I looked like a kid going to Grandma’s house. Over the river and through the woods.
I was so lost in a labyrinth of thoughts that I did not notice him sit down next to me. He was a boy my age. Maybe a couple of years older. My skin tingled in a way I could not identify when he brushed up against me. It was like electricity or dope. He drummed a rhythm against his thigh. When his quicksilver eyes flicked in my direction, I could not breathe.
He had struck me and rendered me stupid.
Who was he, and did he feel this gravitational pull?
It wasn’t love, and Christ, it wasn’t lust, but those golden spokes, Saturn’s rings, webbed his ocean aquamarine eyes and hypnotized me. Neither of us said a word to one another. Suddenly, a sturdy military jacket with worn elbows seemed cliché.
A mere suggestion of cool.
I tucked my twisting hands into a pair of fingerless gloves and brushed my tongue ring against the roof of my mouth, clicking it with my teeth.
He stared at me, his eyes cool metal. “Could you not?” he asked, a brusque edge to the words and his voice huskier than I imagined. Who did he think he was? This, the same boy who was tapping out a drum solo on his thigh. I nodded, not trusting myself with language.
This was the beginning of something new. I had a future waiting for me: something I never envisioned before.