(2) Unrequited
Sunday came again quickly, and Chloe forced her reluctant body into the shower. The drops of water poured down her body, strangely washing away the pungent stench of defeat on her skin after last night's events.
She tried to shake the thoughts of Philip on her bed, on top of her, wanting to be with her more closely than she would allow him. But he was compassionate; he understood her unwillingness. Chloe Lane wasn't ready to share herself with anyone, not after having her trust being broken again and again throughout her years as a social outcast.
After learning her place in society, she realized that it wasn't so bad to constantly be ignored and unseen. She rather liked the solitude that it entitled her. When insomnia got the better of her some nights, instead of calling a close girlfriend for casual prattle, Chloe would sit cross-legged on her balcony and stare up at the cloudy night sky, the moon hanging right above her head as she quietly sang melancholy songs to herself. It never exuded a completely lonely feeling to her, sitting awake during the witching hours. At times it felt as though there were someone else awake at the same time, wondering where she was, wanting to come and sit beside her.
Chloe would desperately try to convince herself that she wanted Philip to be the one who was thinking about her during the late hours of night. She honestly did. But the feeling of his offhand kisses and obligatory embraces made her think otherwise.
She finally stepped out of the shower after thirty minutes of earnest contemplation. Her fingers and toes were wrinkled and her long hair was matted down to her scalp. How attractive, she thought to herself as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. She took a comb from the corner of the counter into her right hand and slid the plastic tines through her long brown hair. Staring oddly at herself for a moment, she put the comb down and took a section of her hair in hand. She looked down at it, expressionlessly.
An array of memories from the few foster homes that she had lived in and survived swept through her mind. She envisioned her first foster father, Mark, and his fetid breath exhaling over her dark hair when his wife was working the graveyard shift. Mark would come into Chloe's room when she was eleven and tell her how pretty she was, grazing his fingers down her bare arms exposed by her sleeveless camisole. After that night, Chloe wore turtlenecks to sleep. But she could still remember his breath on her hair, the disgusting humidity of it hitting her forehead.
"Chloe, dear," she heard her mother call from downstairs. "Are you daydreaming again? We're going to be late for church."
"I'll be down in a minute," Chloe yelled back to Nancy. Slowly and deliberately, she took a pair of red-handled scissors from her dresser drawer and proceeded to cut the section of hair clutched in her left hand. Strand after strand, the polished metal blades cut through the luxurious chestnut hair, letting it fall to the cold bathroom tiles in a heap of sordid remembrance.
Brady couldn't help himself. He stood against the familiar elm tree staring into Chloe's bedroom window, wondering why she wasn't outside. Her parents--they were trimmed and ready for their wasted day of gospel--stood by the front door of their house, awaiting Chloe for departure.
Maybe she knows you're spying on her, a voice from inside of Brady scolded.
Hey, he retorted to his gnawing conscience, she's been up there for God knows how long. She's never usually this late getting out of the house on Sundays.
You should know, stalker.
I'm NOT a stalker. I just happen to pass by here every week for my Sunday jog.
Did you notice that you started with those Sunday canters of yours right after you met Chloe? Did you notice that, smart guy?
Chloe's just a pain in the ass, ok? She makes me want to keep coming back with more retorts to her obnoxious comments. She's asking for it, you know.
I know. She's been asking for it since she first met you.
What did you say?
The voice inside of him was not quick enough to respond as Brady heard screeching voices coming from Chloe's house. He leaned further to his left to see the reason behind the ruckus.
"Chloe Lane!" Nancy was yelling from outside the front door into the house. "You are coming to church with us right now! I don't care how you look; you get your rear-end down here right this instant."
Brady heard a barely audible reply from Chloe saying that she wasn't going with them.
Her stepfather, Craig, grabbed Nancy by the elbow and resolutely closed the front door. He dragged his plump redheaded wife to the car, telling her, "Chloe's a young woman. She'll be all right at home for one Sunday, honey. Don't worry about her."
"Craig, she's upset about something. I didn't even get a chance to see her all morning; she's been locked in that bathroom of hers for hours." Nancy continued her babble as the married pair finally got into their old black sedan and sped off towards the heart of Salem.
Brady, having overheard the whole argument, wondered what was troubling Chloe. The Diva herself was afraid of something to make her miss her beloved Sunday at church.
NOW would be a good time to talk to her, the familiar voice said to him, coming back to ring in Brady's ears.
Right now?
No time like the present, my friend. You know that's why you're here.
What do I do? What do I say?
The voice no longer replied to him. He was on his own if he wanted to see Chloe. He mustered up enough nerve to step onto her porch, realizing that he had never stood on it before, realizing how new all of this was to him, wanting to reach out to someone in an uncanny blur of emotions. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorbell and then it quickly fell back to his side.
"I can't do this," Brady told himself. "It doesn't feel right talking to her when she's upset; I'm the last person she'd want to see."
As if answering his lack of confidence, the sun seemed to radiate so brightly just then, atop his sneakers and then gradually up his legs. The sun that had always been such a traitor to him for as long as he could remember was finally shining on him. It was urging him towards something that could possibly give him the deliverance he could never find in anything, not even his retired faith in that divine being who was supposed to provide him with love and care. But the light could also be pushing him towards pain, rejection, and more pain.
Brady dropped his hand for the last time and stared solemnly at Chloe's white front door. He shoved his clammy hands into his pockets and turned away from the light's failed attempt at luring him into another heartache. Silently, he continued the rest of his morning jog.
(smallfries@muted.com)
Sunday came again quickly, and Chloe forced her reluctant body into the shower. The drops of water poured down her body, strangely washing away the pungent stench of defeat on her skin after last night's events.
She tried to shake the thoughts of Philip on her bed, on top of her, wanting to be with her more closely than she would allow him. But he was compassionate; he understood her unwillingness. Chloe Lane wasn't ready to share herself with anyone, not after having her trust being broken again and again throughout her years as a social outcast.
After learning her place in society, she realized that it wasn't so bad to constantly be ignored and unseen. She rather liked the solitude that it entitled her. When insomnia got the better of her some nights, instead of calling a close girlfriend for casual prattle, Chloe would sit cross-legged on her balcony and stare up at the cloudy night sky, the moon hanging right above her head as she quietly sang melancholy songs to herself. It never exuded a completely lonely feeling to her, sitting awake during the witching hours. At times it felt as though there were someone else awake at the same time, wondering where she was, wanting to come and sit beside her.
Chloe would desperately try to convince herself that she wanted Philip to be the one who was thinking about her during the late hours of night. She honestly did. But the feeling of his offhand kisses and obligatory embraces made her think otherwise.
She finally stepped out of the shower after thirty minutes of earnest contemplation. Her fingers and toes were wrinkled and her long hair was matted down to her scalp. How attractive, she thought to herself as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. She took a comb from the corner of the counter into her right hand and slid the plastic tines through her long brown hair. Staring oddly at herself for a moment, she put the comb down and took a section of her hair in hand. She looked down at it, expressionlessly.
An array of memories from the few foster homes that she had lived in and survived swept through her mind. She envisioned her first foster father, Mark, and his fetid breath exhaling over her dark hair when his wife was working the graveyard shift. Mark would come into Chloe's room when she was eleven and tell her how pretty she was, grazing his fingers down her bare arms exposed by her sleeveless camisole. After that night, Chloe wore turtlenecks to sleep. But she could still remember his breath on her hair, the disgusting humidity of it hitting her forehead.
"Chloe, dear," she heard her mother call from downstairs. "Are you daydreaming again? We're going to be late for church."
"I'll be down in a minute," Chloe yelled back to Nancy. Slowly and deliberately, she took a pair of red-handled scissors from her dresser drawer and proceeded to cut the section of hair clutched in her left hand. Strand after strand, the polished metal blades cut through the luxurious chestnut hair, letting it fall to the cold bathroom tiles in a heap of sordid remembrance.
Brady couldn't help himself. He stood against the familiar elm tree staring into Chloe's bedroom window, wondering why she wasn't outside. Her parents--they were trimmed and ready for their wasted day of gospel--stood by the front door of their house, awaiting Chloe for departure.
Maybe she knows you're spying on her, a voice from inside of Brady scolded.
Hey, he retorted to his gnawing conscience, she's been up there for God knows how long. She's never usually this late getting out of the house on Sundays.
You should know, stalker.
I'm NOT a stalker. I just happen to pass by here every week for my Sunday jog.
Did you notice that you started with those Sunday canters of yours right after you met Chloe? Did you notice that, smart guy?
Chloe's just a pain in the ass, ok? She makes me want to keep coming back with more retorts to her obnoxious comments. She's asking for it, you know.
I know. She's been asking for it since she first met you.
What did you say?
The voice inside of him was not quick enough to respond as Brady heard screeching voices coming from Chloe's house. He leaned further to his left to see the reason behind the ruckus.
"Chloe Lane!" Nancy was yelling from outside the front door into the house. "You are coming to church with us right now! I don't care how you look; you get your rear-end down here right this instant."
Brady heard a barely audible reply from Chloe saying that she wasn't going with them.
Her stepfather, Craig, grabbed Nancy by the elbow and resolutely closed the front door. He dragged his plump redheaded wife to the car, telling her, "Chloe's a young woman. She'll be all right at home for one Sunday, honey. Don't worry about her."
"Craig, she's upset about something. I didn't even get a chance to see her all morning; she's been locked in that bathroom of hers for hours." Nancy continued her babble as the married pair finally got into their old black sedan and sped off towards the heart of Salem.
Brady, having overheard the whole argument, wondered what was troubling Chloe. The Diva herself was afraid of something to make her miss her beloved Sunday at church.
NOW would be a good time to talk to her, the familiar voice said to him, coming back to ring in Brady's ears.
Right now?
No time like the present, my friend. You know that's why you're here.
What do I do? What do I say?
The voice no longer replied to him. He was on his own if he wanted to see Chloe. He mustered up enough nerve to step onto her porch, realizing that he had never stood on it before, realizing how new all of this was to him, wanting to reach out to someone in an uncanny blur of emotions. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorbell and then it quickly fell back to his side.
"I can't do this," Brady told himself. "It doesn't feel right talking to her when she's upset; I'm the last person she'd want to see."
As if answering his lack of confidence, the sun seemed to radiate so brightly just then, atop his sneakers and then gradually up his legs. The sun that had always been such a traitor to him for as long as he could remember was finally shining on him. It was urging him towards something that could possibly give him the deliverance he could never find in anything, not even his retired faith in that divine being who was supposed to provide him with love and care. But the light could also be pushing him towards pain, rejection, and more pain.
Brady dropped his hand for the last time and stared solemnly at Chloe's white front door. He shoved his clammy hands into his pockets and turned away from the light's failed attempt at luring him into another heartache. Silently, he continued the rest of his morning jog.
(smallfries@muted.com)