He excused himself to go to the restroom,
and she slipped two drops in his evening coffee. Hoping it would be enough, she sat still in her
chair opposite his full mug, and waited for him to return. He came back with a smile and sat with his
coffee.
He made pleasant chit-chat, but she was
distant. She was waiting for him to take
a sip. Just one sip. He talked on for a couple of minutes that
felt like hours to her. Finally, he
raised it to his lips and began to tip the mug, but then he remembered something
he had to tell her and proceeded with a funny story about the previous day’s
escapades. She only vaguely heard
something about the airport, and then he was laughing, and she smiled too. Finally, he took a sip of his coffee. She started her stop-watch for one
minute. One precious minute during which he
would have to tell her the truth. Nothing
but the truth.
59 seconds
She looked into his eyes, and intently
asked him the only question that really mattered.
He was dating someone now. He was
not hers and could not be. But still she
had to know.
“John...” She hesitated. Did she really want to know the answer?
“Yes?”
His eyes were serious now too.
Those deep, bewitching, green eyes were hers for one minute.
42 seconds
She took a deep breath, knowing that precious second were being wasted. “John,” now
or never, she thought, “John, did you ever love me?”
Emotions that she had been burying for so long resurfaced with that one word.
She had never dared to speak the word “love” around him before; as if the word was sacred and not meant for
her dirty hands.
36 seconds
He looked at her, pain evident by his
creased brow. Finally, he had to look
away.
22 seconds
She thought of the gentle weight of his
hand on her shoulder, the whispers in her ear that one beautiful day. And all that time when they could have been
together. Before she was in the picture.
15 seconds
Before someone who deserved him took her
chance and got him.
10 seconds
With a glance to her watch, she asked him
again, with pleading in her eyes. She
had to know.
4 seconds
He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The minute was over, and the potion wore off as quickly as it had set in. He had no memory of the minute, that was how it worked. He started right up again with what used to be a comforting chatter, but now it just hurt her to hear it.
“Hey, is something wrong?” he asked. He always knew when something was wrong.
“No, I’m fine.” She always said that. She always lied that way, keeping him out. It's a wall she built out of fear; not wanting to mess up something so perfect.
She excused herself from the table with some sudden realization of being late to something. Driving quickly away, anywhere just to be away, she parked in an empty lot and wept.
She cried for the truth she wanted to hear. She thought that if he would tell her that he never loved her, then maybe she could move on. But she found a way to get the truth and the truth was so much more confusing. He didn’t know.
She didn’t stop crying when night fell. The stars came out one by one, only to be blotted out by a heavy cloud.
I don't object to mystery and not very much to poetry, but for my money, the whole point ought to be to drop the serum in his coffee cup and to imagine the results, to give him his voice, if only in his imagination.
ReplyDeleteWhat you have is clarity and precision--we know exactly what you would have liked to find out. That's safe for the writer. What you lack here is the imagining and then the hearing of his words. That would have been riskier for the writer, harder to control, harder to be sure of her effects.
"only in your imagination" I should have written in the first sentence.
ReplyDeleteYes, I see what you mean. Should I edit it?
ReplyDeleteIf you're the perfectionist I suspect you are, yes.
ReplyDeleteGot it.
ReplyDeleteSorry--I think I missed that it was a rewrite. Label for me and that won't happen again! Now, let's see....
ReplyDeleteYou have nothing to be sorry about! I was saying with determination that "I've got this project" and then I went on to rewrite it.
DeleteI suppose I left myself open in this assignment to anyone who wanted to try out their fiction chops! You have your basic situation, the one you described in the earlier version--and now your imagination has been released to gallop down the page.
ReplyDeleteI think your countdown is very clever. I recognize the keyword ("second") and tension-building devices you described in another piece and am glad to see you trying them out in nonfiction. Also wise is going third person since it frees you up to write about a protagonist or character instead of the person you see in the mirror.
All that between-the-seconds material is excellent.
Fine last graf: the tears, stars, cloud--sure, we get that. Not exactly a metaphor; more an 'objective correlative,' I think. Next to last graf rings very true too.
One or two false-sounding sentences or phrases:
* Waves of emotion that she had hidden for so long washed over her
* in the blink of an eye.
I'm learning that sometimes there are things that you as the writer need to know (draft #1), but not everybody (especially not the reader) needs to know all that.
ReplyDeleteYeah, the countdown thing sort of came in during the middle of my writing. All of a sudden, I had a way to keep my readers attention. And yes, third person gave me the distance I needed.
Funny, those two false-sounding phrases gave me trouble when I was shining up the piece, but I didn't know what was wrong so I didn't know how to fix them. Now I'm sure they're wrong, so I'll figure out how to fix them tomorrow.
Thanks!
There, fixed.
ReplyDelete