Poems and prose for various contests over the course of the decade. |
Time to go. I powered down my computer and grabbed my purse after shoving my laptop into my briefcase. The office was deserted. Given that it was Friday and a holiday weekend, that did not surprise me. I took one more pass of the mail room and found a note in my mail slot. It had not been there earlier in the day. Glancing in the other boxes, I saw no other notes. My presence was requested. Only an address was listed. I read the note several times, folding and unfolding it nervously. I wasn't one to take a dare or go out on a limb, but this intrigued me. Still I hedged. I considered throwing it away, then at the last minute, I jammed it into my purse and headed for the exit. I followed my usual routine for Friday night. A glass of Chardonnay at the Waldorf. I liked to watch the high powered guests arrive. I liked to pretend I was there meeting someone. For that hour, I felt the freedom of possibility. Tonight I felt restless. I pulled out the invitation and stared at it hoping for some sign of what was to come. But the words just gazed up at me, daring me to be bold. To take a chance. I didn't recongize the handwritting. I couldn't fathom who would deliver such an invitation. I googled the address and discovered it was a small gallery on the upper east side. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I headed home to change. My curiosity was captured and I figured it was a public venue, so it had to be safe. I arrived just before the appointed time and was welcomed into a beautiful old home. Inside the gallery flowed through the rooms of the main floor. I took a glass of champagne offered, then wandered, taking in all the lovely works of art. Other people milled about looking at the paintings and chatting, but I kept to myself. There was something almost familiar about the work. Places I recognized, done up in tones of light and shadow. There was a feeling of hope, but also of mystery. I moved along, lost in the displays trying to make out the artist's name. The initials tickled a memory, but it was hidden within the folds of time. In the largest of all the rooms I came face to face with a portrait of my younger self. I stood speechless staring at the painting. Memories of my past flooded and I felt weak in the knees. I downed the last of my champagne and was relieved when I was able to set the glass aside before letting it drop. Shock moved over me, holding me in place. I turned to flee and came face to face with the artist. The only man who had ever broken my heart. His deep azure eyes looked into mine, capturing my heart like they had so many years ago. Years when I had been young and hopeful. Years when I had been open and vulnerable. Years when I had loved this man more than my own breath.... and then he had left. Without a word. Without a care that he had crushed my very soul. Tears flooded my eyes and I blinked rapidly to keep them at bay, but it was no use. They ran in rivets down my cheeks. I had buried the hurt and moved on. Finding my place in my own work. Insulating myself behind a set of tight knit routines that kept me at arm's length from everyone. And now here he was, ripping the seams of my life apart. I staggered a step. Felt the blackness of the void opening up around me and then all was silent as I fell to the floor. Word Count = 637. Notes ▼ |