She stood in the back. He didn’t have a hope of catching her eye. He was only the opening act, barely a name, and yet the music moved through her, shaking her to the core like a hurricane rattles a fragile foundation of bones and mortar. She took a long drag from her cigarette and let it fall to the ground, heading for the exit. The night was young, but she was weary and unwilling to bear witness as the crowd around her departed from its state of righteous music-loving to one of drunken disorder. She slipped out the front door and past the line of hopefuls waiting to gain entrance. How young they all seemed.
The blocks stretched out before her as she headed toward her car. The streets were full of people, but she seemed to see through them, caring only for her destination. She did not know where she was going after she reached her destination, but it suddenly became extremely important that she reach it with haste. The parking garage came into view after several hurried moments. She climbed what seemed to be a hundred stairs before finally reaching the upper level.
On the horizon, buildings grew from the ground, great vines and weeds breaking through the concrete to form the skyline, a breathtaking sight that she had never before been eager to leave behind. She lived and breathed for the city, for the bustle and the crisp air. She dreamed of monumental street signs and faceless crowds, glamour and power and all the rest. She dreamed of dreams long left abandoned.
He leaned casually against the railing at the side of the garage, as if the industrial wires separating him from sure death were a suitable replacement for caution. With a ragged mane of curly hair, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he was a sight to behold. His gentle smile could almost convince her that everything was okay.
“You look good,” he said, nodding to her platform heels and low top. She didn’t even dream of dressing like that anymore.
“Got a light?” she replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her bra.
“Classy as ever, love,” he said, lighting her cigarette with his own.
“I do what I can.” She breathed in deeply, appreciating the tender way the smoke tickled her throat and lungs, teasing her with release. “How have you been?”
“Dreadful at best, wretched at worst.” She nodded, leaning against the railing next to him. She refused to make eye contact. “You?”
“Wretched at best,” she replied. From the corner of her eye, she took a short look at him. He hadn’t shaved in days and looked dreadfully thin. Smoke poured from his mouth when he spoke and his eyes were rimmed with black.
“You get what you deserve, I guess.”
She turned her head, staring directly at him. “What,” she spat, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Look,” he turned his body to face her, casting his cigarette aside, “you had your problems and I had mine, but the difference is that I faced mine and you ran away.”
“What exactly did I run away from?” she asked. “Was it your perpetual childhood or your inability to bathe?”
“No,” his voice became very low, “you ran away from the only person who will love you for who you are, not who you think you want to be.”
She stood still. In the distance, she heard laughter and the low engine of a semi truck. His face was completely emotionless as he stared at her, as if he had been planning this moment for a long time. She wildly thought that he must have practiced before the mirror to achieve such solemnity, for he used to laugh inappropriately in tense situations.
“I ran away,” she said carefully, “from an overgrown child who would never stop chasing pipedreams to act like a grown up.”
“And I got away from a shallow pipedream who pretended to be whatever she had to be to earn her MRS degree before graduation,” he replied. “Tell me, are you happy now, or are you still faking it?”
“I don’t know why I came here,” she whispered. She threw her cigarette to the ground and watched it glow in the darkness. She hated smoke. She hated what it did to her teeth and how she always smelled like burned coffee after a cigarette. She hated the way it polluted the air and made things that were once beautiful shrivel under its influence.
“You came here,” he started. His voice was even, but his hands shook madly. Years of emotion poured through him as he addressed her coldly. “You came here to see what your life could have been. I’ll tell you what it could have been. I would have married you and done anything to make you happy. I would have quit music and done something practical. I would have left the city, left my family, left everything behind for you. I would have done anything. And you didn’t let me.”
“You would have done anything.” She rolled the words about on her tongue, tasting them and trying them on. They were words she had heard before, but they now took on new meaning. “You would have done anything, left anything, become anything. And you would have been miserable. We both would.”
“And I’m not miserable now?”
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
She moved away from the railing, crushing the abandoned cigarette beneath her heel. She crossed the lot and he followed, stopping just short of her car. She started the engine and rolled down the window, gazing at him one last time.
“We would have been happy,” he said softly, a sad smile playing on his lips. He considered her carefully, taking in the paleness of her skin and the few grey hairs mixing with her blonde. Her lipstick had long faded, leaving only her thin, cracked lips and the moonlight cast shadows upon her face that showed the toll the years had taken on her. Still, she was beautiful, and his heart soared when their eyes met, though somewhere deep he knew it was for the last time.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she pleaded, hurt to see the pain upon his face.
“Like what?” he asked, as if he did not already know.
“Like you want to kiss me.” She put the car in gear and backed up, leaving him to be a reflection in her rearview mirror.
“Can you blame me?” he replied, but she was already gone.
As the city fell behind her, the reality of her life lay ahead. Every mile that spanned between her and the love she left behind brought new relief, and by the time she reached her home she could almost breathe again.
She tiptoed across the darkened halls, past the fine furniture and family portraits, up several stairs and into the safety of her bedroom. Her heels were soon discarded on the floor and she slipped into bed, pulling the linens up around her and consenting to fall restlessly into sleep.
In his slumber, her husband turned to wrap himself around her, placing a tender kiss upon her cheek. “I missed you,” he mumbled, his speech muffled by sleep.
“I missed you too,” she replied, settling into his embrace. “I’m glad to be home.”
