Today was one of those days when the world turned on its axis out of nothing but obligation to the laws of physics. The air was colder than usual and felt like snow, and the sun shone in a halo through the veil of milky clouds. The air was still and quiet, and no breeze came around to stir up the dead leaves.
It was just like Mario, too. His heart beating out of regard for nothing but biology. His body cold and still, alive without life. Only a whisper of breath in the stale morning air of his bedroom, not nearly enough to stir up the motes of dust that floated above his head.
He knew he had to get out of bed and get on with his day, but why bother? The day was so dreary and dull, and the goings-on were even worse. Damien Toadwell's sink was backed up beyond the help of amateurs—again—and Koopa Jones's kids had flushed golf balls down the toilet after chasing down a massive intestinal release—for the fourth time. More mundane tasks, more making ends, more living paycheck to paycheck, and nothing looming on the horizon to shake up the monotony of a Bowserless lull.
No...it was something else.
It was the same thing that filled his head when he was at work. The same thing that kept him lying awake at night. The same thing that no longer robbed him of a night of decent sleep, which now, after he had been unconscious long enough to rest himself back to a state of semi-coherence, was strong enough to shift his apathetic brain back into high gear.
"Peach, I don't understand-a," he said. "We're supposed to be gettin' married."
"I know...and I want that, too...but I'm not ready for it. And I know you. You're not ready, either. You want to be ready, but it's not happening. You know we're meant to be together, but we can't get any closer than we are now."
"But why?" he said. "Why can't-a we go any further?"
She had no answer.
And if he had the nerve to admit it, he'd tell her didn't have one, either.
The photo album on his shelf. Surely it would give him the answer. After all, four hundred photos were the best record he had of the whole relationship. If he saw them, it would be like building a puzzle—one of photos and memories waiting to be woven into a single mosaic.
But then, Luigi had a point the other day: Memories are flawed, and hindsight is never 20/20. No impressions are perfect when they're first formed, and when they get old enough to become recollections, they've gotten blurry. That's why you think you remember something, but you really don't. That's why you think you see clearly, but you're really looking at the past through foggy glasses. Even a photo tells only part of the story, and memories are always blurred by hindsight. And Mario stood a chance of driving himself insane trying to put it all together. Seeing the photos might not help him figure it out; all it might do is bring back faulty memories, cruel nostalgia, and all the feelings that roared with them.
To hell with Luigi. I have to try.
Mario lifted a shaky hand up to the shelf and clasped the spine of the album. It was as if time had stopped. He started to wonder what the point of no return was—the line from which he couldn't cross, where putting the album back would be even more eviscerating than opening it.
But then as if of its own accord, the album was in his lap and spilling open, inviting him to gaze inside.
His chest started to tighten, trapping all the breath in his chest. His eyes began to burn and go out of focus, and he knew tears were ready to leak out. He thumbed through the pages, seeing but not looking, recognizing but not comprehending, emoting but not feeling.
And yet...
And yet, it was all he needed to do. It wasn't one photo that made him come to a realization. It was the sheer act of looking that made it all come together.
"Peach, I don't-a know why it feels so wrong," he said softly. "But it does-a. I know everyone says we're-a meant to be...but I don't think we really are. There's-a no rhyme or reason to it. We're not-a working."
She didn't argue. She didn't burst into tears. She didn't throw her parasol at him. She didn't scream at him to leave and never come back. She just sat there, staring at him, blinking her tears away...then loosed a sigh of relief. Years of tension and frustration and a feeling of something being wrong, all leaving her in a massive exhalation and a weepy smile.
"Oh, Mario...I love you like a friend. And you're like the brother I never had. But we can't go any further than that. Whenever it gets serious, it feels like we're supposed to make it work...and it never really does."
She tried to say more, in case she hadn't made any sense. But he knew what she meant. He'd known it all along. They were trying to make more out of their relationship than they could, as if they were trying to set off fireworks and all they could do was light a candle.
Mario knew it wasn't their fault. They didn't have any tragic flaws or inner demons. They didn't have any notches in their bedposts or graveyards filled with ruined relationships. And they didn't have eyes for anyone else. He wasn't a player; she wasn't a flirt. He wasn't a jerk; she wasn't a brat. He didn't want Pauline; she didn't want Bowser. He didn't want Daisy; she didn't want Luigi. They had done everything right. The first kiss, the first dance, the first date, the golf and tennis and go-kart racing, the parties and games and mutual frustration with Bowser's buffoonish schemes. Everything was right.
But they weren't.
Mario slid his cap off his head, bowing to hide his face from her view. "I'm-a sorry, Peach..."
She sniffled and gave him a teary chuckle. "There's nothing to be sorry about," she said. "I have been waiting so long for one of us to say it...and I didn't want it to be me." She let out a sob. "I mean, how could I, after everything you've done for me?"
Mario blinked his misty eyes but gave an equanimous shrug. "It's-a not working," he said softly. "I may be a hero...but I may not be the one you love. And you're a princess-a...but you may not be the one I love."
There was nothing else said. No argument, no debate, no second-guessing, just a mutual agreement forged in the silence and the teary smiles:
"We're not meant to be."
But what sort of answer was that? How could that possibly bring any solace? There was no logic, no reason, no elucidation nor explanation. It was a statement. A fact. A report from a droning weatherman on the radio.
Of course, Mario had a litany of justifications. If I was a prince, we'd have gotten along. If she was a Brooklyn girl, we'd have gotten along. If I didn't have an accent, we'd have gotten along. But those weren't answers. They were excuses. They were consolations. They were rationalizations. They answered everything and explained nothing. They didn't say why Mario and Peach weren't meant to be; they just said they weren't.
And maybe that's how it was. No reason. No cause. No downpour that put out the spark. It was nothing they did, nothing they said, nothing they should have done, nothing they could have done.
They weren't meant to be.
Maybe it was the only explanation. Maybe it was the truest thing they could have said. Maybe they were trying too hard to make it work, when all along they had to admit what they had already known.
Mario and Peach...two puzzle pieces that didn't join. Two chemicals that did nothing but mingle. Two drivers approaching each other on a two-lane road and waving to each other as they drove past, then turning back to the road and carrying on.
Mario and Peach...two names that were something. Two names that couldn't be something more. Two names that desperately tried to be something more but would have been looking for a way to be something less.
But one thing wouldn't change. He would always rescue her. He would always go from world to world and fortress to fortress. He would vanquish one of his enemies, drawing closer to the prize, and hearing those immortal and maddening words: "Thank you, Mario, but the princess is in another castle."
It wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what he asked for. It wasn't what he spent all those years trying to make happen.
But it was the truth.
And maybe it was all he needed to know.
THE END