Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Powers and all of my favorite characters. Enjoy my story anyways.
111
The board still reads "delay." Ten minutes? One hour? A day? A year? It does not say, and nobody knows. They give me the same answers; "when we get word, you will get word."
Ugh. So frustrating. I'm usually not one to complain, but I don't feel well, I'm tired and I am going to visit my mother. I haven't seen her in over a year, and even then that isn't enough. We don't see eye to eye, and its never going to change.
Ever.
I don't even know why I brought her flowers. She leaves them on the table the whole visit, and the negative energy leaves them in ruin. It's just a waste of money. I should buy vodka instead, and drink it ahead of time.
I heave up my bag and go downstairs to the vendors and restaurants. I buy an orange juice, an orange and a bag of Samuraii Peanuts. As I am paying I see sitting by himself at a table for two, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a bagel, none other than Eric Myers: the one who stopped writing to me two months ago after months of communications: letters, pictures, cards, etc.
Now there is nothing.
I have the last three letters in my bag, actually. I fish them out, put the peanuts in, and huff up to his table and drop them down with the sound of a slap. His eyes go to me.
"If you wanted to just end communications you should've said so. It would've saved me the trouble of figuring out what I did wrong. Good bye Myers." I smirk, add, "Look! I didn't even have to write it down."
I walk away without an answer, or comment. Going back up the stairs I sit on the floor under the board that will announce my train. At least I know the track.
I drink my orange juice and peel my orange. I like the way the rime makes my nails smell. Plus, the vitamin C will make me feel better.
Not my feelings though. Even in this train station he still does not care. I shouldn't care, but I do. If the reason is me I want to know.
I watch him walk up the stairs. He looks for his track and surprise-surprise it is the same one as mine. He comes over. I notice now that his hair has grown out. It needs to be cut. He wears a leather jacket and boots. He must think he is 'top dog.' He isn't.
His dark eyes go to me. He takes a seat a few feet away from me. I have nothing to say so I don't. If he wants something he better start talking.
He opens a newspaper and rips out an article. He holds it out to me. There is a picture, but I not going to turn and look at it. Instead, my interest goes to my bag. I take out my scarf and make a pillow. I lay sideways on the dirty ground.
He retracts the article. "Where are you heading?" he questions.
"If you wrote back you would know the answer."
"Never mind, I don't want to know."
I don't know why it crushes me, but it does. He sits back against the wall and shuts his eyes. I cannot do the same. One of us has got to be the responsible one.
