Mia Darien - Good Things

I’m early tonight. An hour? Maybe two? It doesn’t matter anymore. My life is on hold for you. The music beckons me and I go. Paying no mind to the tats, the piercings, and body mutilations, I descend the steps into a hole where a cloud of smoke engulfs me. I squeeze my way past a euphoric couple who reek of alcohol and cigarettes. I envy their happiness. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t natural.

A band—not yours—is playing. Based on the time, they have maybe ten minutes left on stage. I find my seat and slide into the black steel chair pulled up to the little round red table. Here, I’m invisible. It’s far enough from the stage that you can’t see through the shadows, but at such an angle that I can see you no matter where you stand.

You.

I feel calm, complacent, and the anxiety melts away. I order my usual from the waitress and do as little as possible to draw attention. The club and bar scene has never been my thing. I much prefer my quiet gardens back home with a book. I don’t belong here. I know that, but this is as close to you as I can get.

You’re not here yet, but I expected that. I usually come late and slide in through the back just as you walk on stage. Only then can I guarantee your eyes won’t find me. Even if you did, I doubt you would recognize me like this. When last we met, I looked like a fairy child stepped from the stories. Tonight, I look like a succubus freshly born of Hell. You’ll never know me. I am certain. I hope.

Within the hour, you’re on stage. I feel the breath return to me, but I can only take short gasps. S peak to me, my love. Please come back to me. My heart selfishly pleads. I wish this knowing it’s wrong.

I watch the crowd respond to you and you to them. You eagerly fuel the symbiotic relationship between performer and fan. While you prefer the limelight, I bask in the shadows. As much as this world isn’t mine, it clearly belongs to you. Often, I wonder how we could live if you were to remember me. The thought doesn’t matter so I shove it aside, and I sit in silence, nursing my drink and loving you alone in the shadows.

Your fans squeal and scream their affections and I watch you smile at the attention, oblivious to my existence. Once more I watch you bid goodnight and, as always, I sit and wait. You’ll pack up your things and slip out the back long before I abandon my table and emerge from the shadows.

The next band is already on stage. They’re playing something slow and sensual. They’re not half bad. I shift my thoughts to you and use the music to slip into our fantasy.

Kiss me, love. Open your mouth for me, I imagine you saying. I obey and you take what is yours.

“Hello, lass.”

Lass.

The word cuts my legs out from under me and just like that, I feel again.

I raise my eyes and inhale so sharply it hurts. For the first time in a year, you look right through me. Tears burn my eyes and I force a false smile as my blood turns to ice. I can not move. I know I’ve gone white. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t think. You see me and all I want to do is run to you and fall into you. Excitement and dread collide in my chest and I wait.

I drain the last of my drink, but before the bottle hits the table, a second black bottle drops in front of me.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

“What can I do you for?” I ask. My words are so out of place here.

Your presence mutes the music. It’s now just a dull thing in the back. You pull out the empty chair across from me and sit. Leaning forward, you put your weight on the table and close the space between us.

“You come here often,” you say.

You noticed. My heart soars with glee. You still love me enough to notice. It’s all I can do not to cry.

“I do,” I say.

“Why?” Your eyes dig hard into me.

“I like music,” I say, digging back. You smirk with a gentle playfulness in your eyes.

“Just music?” you say.

“And Guinness,” I add, purposely puckering my lips to the bottle’s head.

“And Guinness,” you repeat, not believing my lie.

I swear you purposely pause to let the heat build. You’re enjoying our little game. I won’t lie. I’m starved for it too and play back.

“Will you be here tomorrow night?” you ask.

“No,” I say and watch your smile fall.

“Why not?” you ask.

“Tonight is my last night.”

“Oh…” You look wounded. “Why?”

“I’ve decided I don’t like music.”

“Or Guinness?” you ask, seeing right through my lies.

“Or Guinness.” I smile back and take another sip.

“Shame.” Another heavy pause sits between us.

I can’t have you here. You have no idea how much I want to jump on you and take you right here on the floor. You have no idea how much I want to tell you all of this and jog that memory of yours.

It isn’t fair, I want to scream. You’re mine. You just don’t remember. I’m dangerously close to saying too much.

“You need to go,” I mutter.

“I do,” you say.

“Goodnight,” I say.

You nod. “Goodnight.” But you don’t move. We sit instead and study the other. I swear my pain is mirrored in your eyes.

Oblivious to the demons I fight, you say, “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, would you care to grab something to eat?”

The pain, it encompasses me. The pain rips right through me. We’re playing with Death. Any moment you could remember. Any moment I could fall dead. What would you do then, my love, sitting here, suddenly forced to hold my still body while a year’s worth of memories floods back? You’d hate you. And you’d have to live with it all alone. Tears swell up. They burn my eyes. All I want to do is love you. Is that so bad?

“What do you want?” My voice is a whisper. I drop my guard and I look at you. I let you see my hurt. I know you see the torment in my eyes. I know I sound cold and cruel, but manners right now will only lead you on to false intentions. I can’t explain what you should know, but I can show you. Maybe then, you’ll understand.

“You,” you say too simply.

Heat explodes within my breast and pours right down my front. You smile gently as if you already love me. I alone know you do.

“But I’ll settle for your story instead,” you say.

“My story?”

“Just your story.” You kiss me with those words.

“I don’t have a story,” I whisper.

“Everyone has a story,” you say. “What’s yours?”

Oh, kiss me and be done with this . Kiss me, and remember…to hell with the consequence.

“Why do you want my story?”

“I like stories,” you whisper. “Who are you?”

“Just a nobody,” I say. “Loved and spoiled too much by her daddy, who tried to compensate for the mother who ran off and left her alone.”

“The father?”

“Worked his health off to ensure his daughter had all the luxuries in life to make up for the one thing he couldn’t bring back.”

“The mother,” you say conclusively.

“The mother,” I agree.

“And the spoiled brat?” you ask.

“Emerges now and then from her gardens to mingle.”

“You should emerge more often.”

“I should,” I say. “And you should be careful.”

“Should I?” You grin oh so mischievously. You are trouble. But I already knew that.

“The night is growing late. And I need to go.”

I collect my things and stand from the table. You stand with me.

“Do you have someone waiting at home?”

“I have to go,” I whisper. Your mouth is inches from mine.

“I’m afraid,” you say. If I rise up on tiptoe, your mouth would be on mine.

“Of what?” I ask.