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"You Think You Can Love Me Then Leave Me To Die?"
an excerpt from a novel in progress
by
William H. Chang
Something moves in the gloom near me. As I turn my head suddenly I see a boat, a cruddy little dingy that looks as though it can barely stay afloat in its current state. It knocks against a lone dock with a dull wooden thud, splashing salty sea water up towards the sky. I don’t know why this scene catches my attention so vividly; I can draw no illusions to any deeply rooted psychological metaphors that would connect this scene to anything else in the world, let alone to my life. It’s just a fucked up boat in a fucked up place that nobody’s used in ages. Everything about this city feels so ancient and obsolete, like a scene from a painting no longer in existence.
So why am I here? The question repeats itself yet again, even though I’ve known the answer all along.
I check my watch for what feels like the hundredth time, tapping my foot impatiently. My thick leather boots make a soft, squishy noise on the decaying wood of the harbor. She’s late again, as usual. I probably should have expected it; it’s my fault for having any hope that she would show up on time, therefore I have absolutely no right to complain, nor do I have the right to lay blame on anyone but myself for being so stubborn.
Still, would it kill her to be on time? Just this once?
It’s cold, so to keep warm I pace up and down the harbor, coming across no one in my limited travels except for a small gang of seagulls fighting over the remains of a dead crab. There’s little to see within the confines of the fog, but even without those limitations I doubt there would be anything of interest in this city. Eventually I stop in the same place I was standing only moments before, my wet footprints still visible on the wood.
Sometimes I wonder if I should bother to stay and wait for her, day after day. Maybe I’m just that stubborn. Regardless, I’m still here, waiting for a woman who always keeps me waiting.
So where is she?
As if to answer my unspoken question, I hear a sound. It’s the constant click-clack of high heels on concrete. It’s faint at first, but the noise becomes more distinct with each step, though it soon fades with the transition from concrete to old wood.
A figure appears in the fog, obscured and shadowy, but vaguely human in its appearance. It grows darker and more defined as the sounds draw nearer to me, until I can make out certain features. The flowing black hair that falls just below her shoulders; those pale, slender legs that move with elegance and grace; her crimson lipstick that accentuates her beautifully curved face; and those thin hands, with fingernails painted glossy red.
She’s here at last, standing before me in her brown parka, knee-length black skirt and matching high heels. The love of my life who happens to be the only woman I’ve ever really loved – someone I often hate to love. Although she’s only eighteen, she looks much older – a result of countless years of smoking coupled with what she claims was a rapid mental maturity. Her blue eyes cut through me like an impossibly sharp sword. As I gaze back into those very same eyes I can’t help but put away all my doubts, worries, angst, and anger – at least for the moment. I have no doubt that this is the last time she’ll ever be late.
“You’re late again,” I say, withholding the conviction.
“I know,” she replies. “Sorry.” She’s not. No, she’s merely repeating the lines from the script we’ve devised but never written. Hell, the woman’s a natural.
“I’ve been waiting here for two hours,” I tell her, this time with conviction.
“Whose fault is that?” She’s got a point.
“I told you to be here at a specific time,” I persist, trying to sway the argument in my favor. “You agreed.”
“When have I ever shown up on time?” She looks at me with the slightest hint of a smile.
“I was hoping you would this time,” I reply, beginning to feel whatever advantage I might have had slip away.
“You hoped wrong.” A blow to the head.
“Maybe you should’ve left early,” I retort, “so you would’ve got here on time.”
“Maybe you should find a girl who’ll be on time for you.” I can see myself stumble, falter, and go down. Her killer move, the line that always slays me.
“But I love you.” I almost have to plead, attempting to seek shelter in sympathy. It comes out all wrong.
“And I love you,” she replies blandly, still reciting from the script in her usual fashion. Her eyes close slowly as she takes a deep breath.
Do I ask too much of her?
“It’s always about you,” she says suddenly, with a slight hint of disdain. Her eyes narrow, “I’m not your slave.”
“I don’t ask for much.” I wonder if that’s really true.
“If you really love me,” she starts, and I already know what comes next. “If you really love me, you shouldn’t have to change me.”
I don’t know how to reply to this statement. I never do, never did, and I don’t think I ever will. My defeat is inevitable, the bruises are beginning to swell, and there’s nothing left to do but raise the white flag.
My gaze shifts away from her. I look down at the dingy in the water. It’s taken on some water through a hole I can’t see. In a matter of hours it’ll be at the bottom of the harbor with countless other small boats and ships that have shared the same fate over the years. Something in my head clicks, and I realize that I’m also taking on water, and all too soon I’ll be at the bottom; I’m tied to something that holds me back from being useful, and there’s a hole in my life that needs to be plugged if I ever want to stay afloat.
In the pocket of my jacket my fingers clench tightly. The wind starts to pick up, blowing cold air in from the bay. She stands there, arms wrapped across her chest, looking at me still with that faint trace of a smile, those crimson lips ever so slightly raised at the edges. My insides seem to melt as if made of ice.
“Is there anything else you want to say?” She asks me so suddenly that I’m caught off guard by her question.
“What do you mean?”
“What did you ask me out here for?” She reaches into the pocket of her parka and pulls out a cigarette and a small red lighter, all without taking her eyes away from their target: me. “You wouldn’t make such a big deal about me arriving late if you didn’t have something important to discuss.”
There are a million things I want to say to her right now, that I’ve always wanted to say, but I can’t, so I reply with, “Not really.”
The cigarette slips between her lips and she lights it carefully, protecting the small orange flame. In the foggy dimness the flames sparkles like a star in the night sky. I can smell the tobacco mixed with her scent, that sweet smell that follows her wherever she goes. I love that smell, though I’ve never been able to tell exactly what it is, and she’s never revealed the secret of its origin (perhaps she’s not even aware of its existence). Every woman has her own scent, and it’s only a matter of time before identity can be confirmed through smell.
She turns toward the bay, looking out at the thick layer of fog as if she can see right through it and out to the land on the other side. I follow her gaze, but all I can see is a cloudy grey wall slowly rolling along, pushed by the cold breeze. I hear her take a drag from her cigarette and exhale the smoke into the evening air. It’s lost in the sea of fog almost instantly.
“You know, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” she says to me out of the blue. “I’m not sure if this is the proper time for it, however.” My mind interprets this in a multitude of ways before it can register what she’s said. I glance at her through the corner of my eye, still facing towards the bay.
“You know,” she begins, “I’m constantly changing.” Another drag on her cigarette. “I can never stay in one place very long. I have to clean out the junk, the old and obsolete, as much as it may hurt to do so.”
She takes a final drag on the cigarette before flicking the remains out into the bay. It disappears into the murky water. “I guess what I’m getting at is,” a pause, “I think it’s time we go our separate ways.”
My heart stops in an instant, shattering to pieces. I can’t breathe; my chest tightens and chokes the air out of my lungs. There’s nothing to hold onto that will keep me from drowning in this sea of sorrow and doubt.
“Why?” is all I can manage to say without my voice cracking.
“What do you mean? I told you, I need change. I need something different in my life.”
“Someone?”
She turns her head to look at me for a moment, as if she’s considering whether or not to answer that. I don’t know why I asked that question though. I already know the answer to that one too.
And that’s why I asked her to come.
My hands clench tightly into fists, shaking furiously inside the safety of my pockets. In my head I see her with him, as clearly as I saw them two nights ago – together, holding hands and laughing as they walked back to his apartment at three o’clock in the morning. Just recalling the memory makes me nauseous.
“So that’s it then?” I ask her, my voice still a little shaky.
“I suppose it is,” she replies, trying to sound remorseful. She probably planned to tell me this sooner or later. Tonight just happened to be the most convenient time for her. “Sorry.” Again, she doesn’t mean it.
“No,” I tell her, holding back all of the feelings that are cooped up inside of me. “It’s fine. You’re right.” I close my eyes and breathe in the cold air to clear my thoughts for a moment. “If that’s really what you want, then that’s the way it’ll be.”
The look on her face is that of surprise; she wasn’t expecting me to be understanding of her feelings. What she expected was another battle, and with it a second victory. A smile, larger than the first, creeps onto her lips, sincere and honest. She turns and takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us.
“This is probably going to be good bye,” she says.
“I know. It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
She pauses for a moment and looks at me intently. “Thanks,” she says.
“It’s what you want,” I reply.
She takes another step forward, arms outstretched to embrace me. Her head tucks into my shoulder, forehead down; hands grip my upper back tightly, the same way they used to at a point in time.
I remove a hand from my pocket slowly, wrapping the arm around her shoulders and drawing her close to me. Her scent is overwhelming, and for a moment I hesitate, unsure of what to do next. Do I really want to let her go? Do I really want her to be out of my life forever? My one and only love.
I love you.
My other hand emerges from its respective pocket, clutching the cold piece of metal turned warm and slick with sweat. I raise it slightly, pointing it upwards ever so gently.
And then I pull the trigger.
In the future I'll probably revise this chapter and upload a better version of it, but until then please enjoy the current one. Until recently I considered it some of my better work, but I've since picked up the pen and come up with better material. If you're interested in reading more of my novel-in-progress let me know, and I'll consider uploading some of the other chapters to Fiction Press.
December 10, 2007
