I Used to Know Her

Author's Note:

It has been a few weeks and I have just now started gathering ideas for the next long series I am planning to write. In the meantime, I hope that you all enjoy this short story, none of the characters are included in the Life of D series, but I still enjoyed creating them nonetheless. There is very little action going on, in fact there are only two settings in the entire story itself. From beginning to end, this encounter took less than 5 minutes, but there is a large volume of history being exchanged.

Like always, hope you all enjoy it. For what it's worth, this is an actual set of events that happened to yours truly. From first-hand experience, I gotta tell you that it sucks. Wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

Much love,

aka_Mike

...

"I used to know her," I replied to Kevin's question. He saw as my eyes wondered over to the woman that had just walked into the large building. "So did you as a matter of fact."

"I would remember someone like her," I didn't need to look at him to know that he was sporting that grin of his as he spoke. He was my best friend for a variety of reasons, his predictability was one of the main ones.

"Trust me," I replied as I returned to the notebook that was quickly filling up with mileage, dates, and times, "keep looking at her, take away about ten years off her face and add a dark color to her hair."

"Holy shit..." I almost laughed as recognition registered, that grin had disappeared. "Its..."

"Yup," I again replied.

"But I thought she..."

"Yup," I again answered. Here stood the woman that had driven the deepest cut into my psyche, that delivered the coup de grace that left me even more emotionally unavailable as many women had come to describe me.

"Are you...?"

"Nope," I continued jotting down observations into the notebook, "that ship had sailed a long time ago. You know how I feel about oceans."

"Still," he replied, I knew what he was about to say before he did. This was the other reason why this man had become almost like a brother to me in the short time that we had known each other, "you gotta say something to her, man. Get some peace out of the situation, it'll do you some good."

"I'm good," I replied, both he and I knew that was more than a blatant lie. I had made it a rule to get rid of everything that would remind me of my past. She was no exception.

"Whatever you say, B," he replied halfheartedly, "if you believe that bullshit, guess I should start believing it as well."

We continued our work in silence while I kept looking at her from the corner of my eye. She had aged dramatically in such a small amount of time, it had not been ten years since I had last seen her. How long had it been? Two? Three?

I can still remember our last conversation well, but the time span escapes me, like I said I went to great efforts to put everything behind me. She had not yet recognized me or had not bothered to look for me in her own memory, either option worked well for me.

...

For weeks on end we had spoken almost daily, even in our society she had managed to retain some innocence that made her endearing. Her view on life, untainted by biases or tragedies, was a refreshing tone of color in the palette that had been my own experiences. What I would perceive to be an insult she would see as a careful observation. People were inherently good in her eyes, there was no malice to anyone at any time.

Like I said, her innocence was one of her more endearing qualities, but at the same time one of her worse attributes. We had developed a friendship due to the vast difference of ages between us; more than a decade separated our birthdates. That decade was compounded with my experiences in the military, one year in the uniform is 5 years as a civilian. In military years, I was adding 35 years to my 30 years of age.

When we first spoke, she was asking my opinion on her then relationship with another man, someone just as older as me. She told me of her previous marriage, and how those wounds carried forward onto her current relationship. I understood the feeling well, I too had long carried invisible wounds from my past relationships that poisoned all future potential relationships. She saw this, even in her young years in the world, the deep fissures and broken fragments of what used to be a greater man.

"I am so sorry," she would often say, "all that happened to you, it just isn't fair."

Often, she would lose the battle against the floodgate of tears, her voice would crack, and her breathing would quicken. She had no idea how to comfort me other than to quickly change the topic of conversation, but the more she tried to peer into my fissures the more I could see that darkness begin to touch her.

"If you love him," I told her as she asked for my opinion on her relationship, "you need to talk to him. Tell him what you feel, what you are thinking, and where you are going with life. He will either support you, or he will try to hold you back, then you will know what type of man he is. When people show you their true colors, always believe them."

I was legitimately saddened when she told me that she had decided to break things up with him, he had showed her his true colors and she had followed my advise.

...

I continued to look at her as she made her way into the small retail store, the large amount of noise would have hidden the sound of my voice as I spoke with Kevin. The store was not the classy type, that was not her style, but it was not a rundown type either. It was a conservative place, where women would purchase professional attire for the workplace.

"I'm telling you," Kevin broke the mental image that was slowly taking shape, "you need to talk to her, man. Let her have it, with both barrels."

"No point," I dryly replied, "won't change a thing."

"Inner peace, my man," he replied, making his best impression of a philosopher, "won't get it until you confront her. She fucking tore you open, man. I can see it in the way you are looking at her just now."

"Almost did," I replied before continuing to make the small adjustments to the motorcycle that had carried me for so many miles.

This was the third Harley Softail that I had owned, the first two were lost in separate accidents from which I was lucky enough to walk away unscathed. It did not escape me, the irony of that situation. I carried every broken promise and every failed relationship with me like armor, but despite the close calls on the bike I still rode fearlessly. It was the last respite to an otherwise chaotic existence. Kevin had a good point, I would eventually need to confront some of those demons with more than alcohol and cynicism.

...

The more she and I had spoken, the closer we became. She was morbidly curious about my experiences, hanging on to every syllable that I birthed with each story I would share. Some were about the funnier times I had shared while living beside strangers that would become brothers. The profanity laced rants that I would often go on brought her an immeasurable amount of entertainment, often leaving her clutching her belly from the laughter.

But not all my stories have a happy ending, with those she readily shared with me the mournful silence as I remembered faces that I would never see again.

"I want to help you," she told me one day, "like you have helped me."

"What do you mean?"

"You made me see happiness," she replied as she placed her head on my shoulder, "you have given me such a different world view. I have learned so much from you, and I want to give you something." She pulled off from my shoulder and looked into my eyes, "you know I pray for you every day?"

"Why would you do that?"

"I know you don't believe in that," she whined, "but it makes me feel good when I do. When I met you, I don't know, I just felt that the same God that was looking out for me would maybe look out for you as well, if I prayed hard enough."

"Thank you," I replied.

We had discussed my lack of belief as one of our first conversations, she did not understand how someone could go about life not believing in a higher power. I held my tongue, she did not need to know the vile and degrading things that I had witnessed over the years. Humans are capable of doing the worse things imaginable to one another by taking their religious zeal as justification, such beliefs were the main reason that I became non-religious.

Time would pass, our conversations would become more and more personal in nature, she confided in me and I allowed her a deeper look into the abyss.

"Can we talk?" Those words were the beginning of the end, I knew it better than she did, I had heard variations of those words many times.

"Sure," I replied, "let's go outside."

"Its about my ex," she continued as if our conversation had not stopped completely while we walked outside of the building to the nearest smoking area.

"I figured," I replied.

"It's not like that," she replied, another set of words that I had heard just as often.

"No worries," I lit my cigarette as I continued to look at her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," she whined.

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like I am not here," she replied, "like you are just looking through me."

"Sorry," I lied, "what did you need to tell me?"

"I talked to my ex last night."

"On the phone?"

"No."

"Did you go see him?"

"No."

"You are getting back together with him?"

"No." She stopped, "yes." She looked me in the eyes, "I don't know. Please, tell me what to do!"

"You already know what to do," I replied, "that's why we are here, saying goodbye."

"I don't want to say goodbye!" Her eyes were pleading, "I want to be with you, I really do. But my parents don't approve of us. Him, they have known him all his life, we grew up together. Even after we broke up, they are still in touch with him. Please, understand!"

"I understand," I again lied. "It's ok," another lie, "thank you for telling me."

"Do you think..."

"I don't know," the lies just kept piling up, it was easier this way. Easier for me.

Her parents were right to disapprove of us, the age gap was far too large to ignore so easily, and their traditions were far more important than a simple fling. Those traditions were important to her as well, there was no room for me between them.

"I think I made a mistake," she told me a few weeks later, "he had promised me that he had changed and its still all the same."

"Believe them," I replied to her, "always believe them when they show you who they really are."

"What can I do to fix this? To fix us?"

"There is nothing to fix."

"What do you mean?"

"If you hesitate between me and someone else," I replied, "please, don't chose me." Her tears were silent this time, there was no sobbing, no shallow breaths, not even a whimper.

"I understand," this time, she lied. "I wrote something about you."

"What's that?"

"For my class," she continued, "we had to write about someone that inspires us, I wrote about you. 'He wears a smile like a loaded pistol, walking about the world without direction but never lost. He's always known where he is going, he just doesn't know how to find the right path.' That's how I see you."

"I am not sure if that is a compliment or an insult," I replied.

"Its not an insult," she gathered her purse, "I hope someday we can at least be friends."

"Me too," I replied as she walked away, not sure if she had heard me or not. But as the days turned into weeks, we had started to rekindle our friendship.

Our friendship rekindled our passion for one another, but there was that pit that was separating us, one she had created.

"You'll never trust me again, will you?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Its not very often I give second chances."

"Well," she smiled, "I am glad you did." A month later her smile would be one of the saddest things I would ever see.

"Is it your ex?" I asked her, our conversations had become almost non-existent. Every planned date we had she would cancel or forget.

"No," she looked down at the floor, "its my parents."

"I see," I replied.

"They are not at all happy," she continued, "my father has introduced me to a man. He wants us to get married, grow the family business."

"Its understandable," I looked at her, she tried to hide the pain behind a thin veil of anger.

"They don't understand! You gave me a second chance, and I just blew it. I don't know what I want, I don't know what to do!"

"You have to say no to someone," I carefully replied, "you can say no to them and take a risk with me. Your parents will be angry with you, they may go without speaking to you for years if they think it is that serious. Or you can say no to me and do as your parents demand from you."

"I can't," she replied, her voice barely holding together, "I just can't..."

"You just did," I replied, the sadness in my own voice was unmistakable. "Best of luck."

...

Those were the last words I spoke to her, just over my shoulder as I walked toward the bike. I needed the road then, just like I needed the road now. I don't know how long she stood there, alone, watching as I rode away from her life one last time. This time, I kept my eyes on the road, I did not want to look back.

"You ready to roll out?" Kevin again interrupted my thoughts, I was grateful for that.

"Yeah," I replied as I finished putting my tools away. As I kicked my leg over the saddle, she was coming out of the store, that sad little smile was painted on her face as she greeted strangers.

The sound of Kevin's engine demanded attention, her eyes were immediately drawn over to him. I did not try to hide my face as her eyes moved toward me.

"Sorry, bro," Kevin said, more as an answer to my usual complaints about the smell of the fuel being burned up by the loud engine than by the actions he had helped create.

"It's all good," I replied, my own engine screeching into life. As I tapped the gear into position, I could see that she was trying to move in my direction, desperation painted in her face.

Incoming traffic prevented her from running over to where I was, I was grateful for that small interruption. "Not like God can hear us, anyway."

In my rearview mirrors, I saw as she dropped the bags she had been holding. I was certain that she had not heard me, and I was too far away to allow for her to read my lips. Part of me wished she had heard me, that the wind had carried my voice far enough to reach her ears. That she would understand the meaning behind my words.

Part of me wanted to turn the bike around and go back for her, to lie to her one more time and tell her I forgave her. But I still had a path to search for, and I would have to do it alone.