carry on

carry on


I was hardly alive. Not in a medical sense, more of a dull sense. This afternoon, the night before, hell…everything that could go wrong for the past three weeks had gone wrong. Even this morning, with my coffee stained pants. My missed bus and my untoasted bagel. Small and large, things were very wrong. My eyes said it all. I feel so alone every day walking through the herds of humans in this city. But I can’t go back home. Not after the big fight and the words that were said and the “I swear to God’s” and all that. But my heart sinks deeper and deeper just wondering where she is. She could be a million miles away and I’d never know. She could be next door right now, I’d still never know. One phone call is all that separates us but it still takes two to tango.

I feel pretty alone. Our last conversation is branded on my mushy brain.

“I can live with a broken heart because I know it’s the one thing we still share. I don’t mind everything you said. I meant none of it, so I assume you didn’t either. Being so far, or so close, it doesn’t make a difference. There’s so much of you in everything I see, or hear or think. I’ll just keep waiting.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t. You know I can’t. And you shouldn’t waste your time.”

Hard to think it was four years ago to the date since I wrote that letter and sent the flowers and ran to her house in the rain, skipping in puddles and all that. Drenched. August 13th. My last hoorah (hardly). Most people would’ve moved on, but not me. I’ve never been a quitter and I wasn’t going to start with her. It was summer, damnit. It was the season of love.

Carl Moore. That’s what you can call me. My dad is also Carl Moore and so was my grandpa. We’re very original. I’m a lengthy son of a gun. My hair is a darker shade of brown and it’s messy these days and it rarely gets any kisses from the sun. It’s not often I change out of my blue jeans and black shirt, but I do change my boxers and socks. Relax. I’ve been in love four times, at age thirty-five that seems fair. This story is only about the most recent rendezvous. The only one that matters. Monica Sims. Her name rolls off your tongue like screaming sex. Only the best love stories are complicated, so consider this one of those. And they’re all just as similar as they are intricately diverse.

Also, let me be clear and correct myself. This was, is, hardly a rendezvous. In fact, I might just be in the thick of it as we speak.

That’s why I’m here...to catch you up to speed.

To be twenty-something again. It was a magnificent time of change and minor heartache and newfound love. I had just quit my job as a media director to take a year off and write. I had worked and saved for ten years and had been making decent money since I turned the precious age of twenty. I didn’t want a house, I only wanted time off. I wanted time to myself. So that’s what I did. I was young. Work would always be available. Naively, I figured free time wouldn’t be. I was sorely wrong. And time is hardly free.

I had just been cheated on and dumped by my girlfriend of four years. Is that a lot of time? It’s funny how I gauge time now. When we broke up, I thought, wow...so much time was wasted. Four years of my life. Boohoo. But after being with someone for ten years and splitting up, four years seems like a scrape compared to an amputated limb or something. A year can seem long, but something or someone has always been through it for longer. Often, it’s simply yourself. We live and we learn. Everything else is just eating and pooping and peeing.

And flowers and rainbows and all that fairy tale crap.

I wasn’t always like this. I just...I just am now. These days, everything is different. Of course it is. But I mean really different. I barely recognize the sun and the moon. I barely recognize myself. It’s no fun being alone when you aren’t used to it. It’s no fun when you aren’t supposed to be. Some people love it. Crazy people. If you love being alone, I can’t trust you. Stay away, freaks.

“Carl, seriously,” said Monica. She was still staring at herself in the mirror. She turned around and looked back at it. Her ass looked great, she knew it, too.” “Ugh! C’mon, let’s go. We’re definitely going to be late.”
“Oh, relax. We’re fine.”

This was how every outing began. I would lose track of time while Monica would be getting ready, and by the time she was ready I’d still be sitting on the couch with my hand down my pants. We’re guys, we can get ready pretty quick. But this was a wedding, a different class of getting dressed.

“My phone says we’ll get there in twenty minutes,” I yelled from the bathroom. My tongue was pressed against the inside of my bottom lip. Patches of shaving cream doused my face like little islands. “And their invitation says to be there at eleven. It’s ten-twenty-three right now. I’ll be done in a second.”
“Hurry up.”
“Don’t make me go slower...I will.”
“Can you just stop fucking around!”
“Done.”

The car was loaded and we were off. Our close friends Shane and Alexis were getting married. We had known them both since high school. Shane was making all of our friends look bad by tying the knot. All of our girlfriends wondered who was next. All the guys wondered where the open bar was.


(More TBD)