LJ Idol, Season 10 Week 18: The Distance Between Us
This piece is an intersection with messygorgeous. Chronologically, you should read mine first. Hers can be found here.
___
Ted knew that he was dead. He knew from the moment two days ago when the SUV slammed into him and his bicycle. He saw the mangled heap and understood it was over. As for what's next, he had no clue.
He spent the first day getting used to what it meant to be a ghost. What it meant was not being seen or heard by anyone, and not being able to touch anything. That also meant he could go anywhere, as walls and locked doors meant nothing to him anymore. Floors did, though-for some reason, he didn't sink down through them when he went above street level. He could also sit on chairs even though he could also walk through him. This struck him as weird.
The second day his parents heard the news and flew in to identify the body and make arrangements. He was at peace being dead, but he had to admit, their reaction unsettled him. When he couldn't take it anymore, he left them and watched the mortician prepare the body for burial. That didn't bother him as much as he thought it might have.
It was on the third day that he decided to visit Marisol. He waited outside his girlfriend's apartment all morning for her to leave (he may have been intimate with her for three years, but that gave him no right to spy on her sleeping or getting ready). It was Saturday morning, so it took her a while to get up and about. She emerged, her guitar slung over her back and a neutral expression on her face. She was going to work, and she wasn't even hysterical. Hadn't she heard about him? If she hadn't, wasn't she worried about him? What was going on in that petite head of hers?
He followed her outside, down the sidewalk, onto the bus, and onto the sidewalk again, until she arrived at her destination. Ted's heart leapt into his throat. On one hand, he was surprised he could still feel that sensation, but on the other hand, he should have known that this is where she'd be headed-it was where she worked when she wasn't in school. But there was something about this place. It was their coffee shop. It wasn't theirs because they went there a lot together-they only did that once, and that was on their first date. Ted couldn't remember the last time he had gone by himself, and he didn't think he ever went there without the intention of watching Marisol work.
He followed her inside. The décor hadn't changed at all in the last three years. It was shabby in a calculated way, with exposed brickwork and door frames that looked a little warped in places. The walls were painted a canary yellow, with pastel green trim. The walls were alternately adorned with mismatched, empty sconces and art by neighborhood artists, some pretty good and some utterly hideous.
She headed to the counter, equipped with an obsolete cash register beside a state-of-the-art credit card swiper, and ordered a small latte. She liked the smaller size because it had a higher espresso-to-milk ratio. She paid cash. After a few minutes of waiting around the espresso machine for her order, it was finished, and she headed for her table. The tables and chairs were, like the sconces, mismatched, with the added feature of being covered in graffiti. She picked one, and Ted's heart once again jumped out of his ribcage.
Marisol sat down after putting her guitar case upright in the seat across from her like they were friends grabbing coffee together. She always did that. Blowing on her drink to cool it off, she didn't take her phone out to amuse herself.
Overwhelmed, Ted plopped down right next to her. She took a long sip . He took a deep breath, which he didn't need to do, but it made him feel better. “Do you remember,” he asked her, “way back to our first date? How I arrived here early, so I took three laps around the block so I'd show up at a reasonable time and not look desperate? And I decided that arriving on time was not the worst thing, so I gave up and came inside. And you were here already. And you parked your guitar right there so I had no choice but to sit next to you. And, after we were talking for an hour, I got excited about something, and you leaned over and kissed me. On the first date. Did you remember that this morning, or are you just sitting here by coincidence?”
She took another sip.
“What are you thinking? I used to be able to read you like a book, but now I don't know what the fuck is going on. God, I wish you could hear me. I wish you'd just talk to me.”
Marisol took one long, final gulp from her mug before rising and bringing it over to the bussing tray. She picked up her guitar and headed out the door, only to stop about six feet from it and sit down, cross-legged. The case opened, and the instrument came to rest in her lap, and her expression dissolved into a bright, energetic smile.
She played and sang.
Ted stood in the gathering crowd and clapped for each song, even though he knew she couldn't hear him.
Eventually she stood up to shake out her legs, not pausing. Ted walked up to her and studied her-really studied her-in a way he hadn't in a long time.
“God, you're beautiful,” he declared. “I can't believe I ever forgot that. How did I ever let myself forget that? I feel like I'm seeing you for the first time, like I did the literal first time I saw you. Do you remember that? You have to remember that. It was at that outdoor concert, and you were wearing that sundress. And your lips were plump, and your eyes were large and brown, and your black hair was up in a bun that strands of it were trying to escape from. And somehow I found the courage to talk to you. And you smiled, and it was amazing. And I made a joke, and you laughed, and I went crazy for you. Then you gave me your number. God that was so long ago.”
He kept his thoughts to himself over the next four hours as she performed and received tips from passing pedestrians and coffee house patrons. She eventually stopped and picked up all the cash, stuffing it in her pocket and returning the guitar to the case. He followed her as she walked to the bus and boarded. When she got off, he considered letting her go, but he decided to stick with her.
Her trip home from the bus stop was a lot faster and more intense than the opposite one. He quickened his pace to keep up, then watched, enraptured, as she stepped over a portion of sidewalk that had buckled due to a tree root.
“You probably didn't notice that,” he sneered, “you probably didn't even care, but I remember the bump you just skipped past. I remember you gazing at me as we walked along, telling me that we'd have the cutest children, and then you tripped over it. I don't know what you were more embarrassed about-blurting the thing about kids when we were only dating for two weeks, or nearly falling on your ass. But you shouldn't have been embarrassed, because that moment was one of the first inklings of love I had for you. And you just walked right past it.”
He stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “It's like you've forgotten how to love me.” He shouted, “When did this happen?”
He jogged after her until she reached her apartment. She locked and unlocked doors, and Ted slipped through walls like they were curtains. He found himself in that living room where they had spent so much time together.
She sat down on the couch and picked up the TV remote. She then put the remote down and picked up her phone instead.
Ted sighed. “This couch. This couch means so much to me. How many times did we make love on this couch? Or maybe not just 'make love'-how many times did we fuck like animals here? When was the last time? I don't remember.
“And then there was three days ago, when you told me I wasn't invited to drinks with your friends. Me, your boyfriend, not invited to go with you, my girlfriend. What were you thinking? Better yet, what were you doing that you didn't want me to see? Where do you get off blowing up like that?”
She roared, “Oh, would you just shut up?”
Ted staggered back and took in a deep, airless breath. “It's okay, Ted, she obviously wasn't talking to you.”
Marisol bolted to her feet and looked him straight in the eye. “No, Ted, I'm speaking directly to you.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “I have been listening to you monologue all fucking morning, and I am sick of it.”
“Well, gee, Marisol, I'm so sorry that I care for you so much.”
She closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened them again. She snarled, “Do you want to know why you weren't invited to drinks? Because you would have been miserable. I know how you operate. You would have sat there, boredom coming off of you like body odor, and it would have made everybody uncomfortable. They would try to entice you into the conversation, and you would give them one-word answers.”
“That's not how-”
“I've seen you do it!” she snapped. “And you were not going to ruin my night. Not when you ruin so many others by not doing anything.”
Ted objected, “I do stuff.”
Marisol held up four fingers. “You come home from work. We eat. We watch TV. We go to bed. I can't live like that. I'm twenty-five years old! I should be out having fun!”
“But I thought we were having fun.”
“You never asked me,” she told him. “You never asked me how I was doing or what I wanted to do. You just assumed I was okay with what you wanted to do. You just assumed I was okay, even if I clearly wasn't.”
“I-”
“And by the way,” she continued, “we've been together for three years, and you've forgotten two-thirds of my birthdays. That's like, Boyfriend 101.”
“Sorry.”
“I know you're sorry,” she groaned. “You're always sorry. But you don't ever change.”
“But, but,” he stammered, “I thought you loved me.”
“I did love you,” she replied. “I loved the quirky, spontaneous, fun Ted. I have no idea who this guy is.”
Ted felt like he was going to cry, but no tears came. Maybe ghosts didn't have any. “It sounds like you're breaking up with me.”
She folded her arms. “I guess I am.”
“But I'm dead!”
“All the more reason for you to go away,” she told him.
“But...”
“Just go!”
Ted hung his head and walked through the wall.
Marisol gave him a few moments before she collapsed on the couch and wept.
___
Ted knew that he was dead. He knew from the moment two days ago when the SUV slammed into him and his bicycle. He saw the mangled heap and understood it was over. As for what's next, he had no clue.
He spent the first day getting used to what it meant to be a ghost. What it meant was not being seen or heard by anyone, and not being able to touch anything. That also meant he could go anywhere, as walls and locked doors meant nothing to him anymore. Floors did, though-for some reason, he didn't sink down through them when he went above street level. He could also sit on chairs even though he could also walk through him. This struck him as weird.
The second day his parents heard the news and flew in to identify the body and make arrangements. He was at peace being dead, but he had to admit, their reaction unsettled him. When he couldn't take it anymore, he left them and watched the mortician prepare the body for burial. That didn't bother him as much as he thought it might have.
It was on the third day that he decided to visit Marisol. He waited outside his girlfriend's apartment all morning for her to leave (he may have been intimate with her for three years, but that gave him no right to spy on her sleeping or getting ready). It was Saturday morning, so it took her a while to get up and about. She emerged, her guitar slung over her back and a neutral expression on her face. She was going to work, and she wasn't even hysterical. Hadn't she heard about him? If she hadn't, wasn't she worried about him? What was going on in that petite head of hers?
He followed her outside, down the sidewalk, onto the bus, and onto the sidewalk again, until she arrived at her destination. Ted's heart leapt into his throat. On one hand, he was surprised he could still feel that sensation, but on the other hand, he should have known that this is where she'd be headed-it was where she worked when she wasn't in school. But there was something about this place. It was their coffee shop. It wasn't theirs because they went there a lot together-they only did that once, and that was on their first date. Ted couldn't remember the last time he had gone by himself, and he didn't think he ever went there without the intention of watching Marisol work.
He followed her inside. The décor hadn't changed at all in the last three years. It was shabby in a calculated way, with exposed brickwork and door frames that looked a little warped in places. The walls were painted a canary yellow, with pastel green trim. The walls were alternately adorned with mismatched, empty sconces and art by neighborhood artists, some pretty good and some utterly hideous.
She headed to the counter, equipped with an obsolete cash register beside a state-of-the-art credit card swiper, and ordered a small latte. She liked the smaller size because it had a higher espresso-to-milk ratio. She paid cash. After a few minutes of waiting around the espresso machine for her order, it was finished, and she headed for her table. The tables and chairs were, like the sconces, mismatched, with the added feature of being covered in graffiti. She picked one, and Ted's heart once again jumped out of his ribcage.
Marisol sat down after putting her guitar case upright in the seat across from her like they were friends grabbing coffee together. She always did that. Blowing on her drink to cool it off, she didn't take her phone out to amuse herself.
Overwhelmed, Ted plopped down right next to her. She took a long sip . He took a deep breath, which he didn't need to do, but it made him feel better. “Do you remember,” he asked her, “way back to our first date? How I arrived here early, so I took three laps around the block so I'd show up at a reasonable time and not look desperate? And I decided that arriving on time was not the worst thing, so I gave up and came inside. And you were here already. And you parked your guitar right there so I had no choice but to sit next to you. And, after we were talking for an hour, I got excited about something, and you leaned over and kissed me. On the first date. Did you remember that this morning, or are you just sitting here by coincidence?”
She took another sip.
“What are you thinking? I used to be able to read you like a book, but now I don't know what the fuck is going on. God, I wish you could hear me. I wish you'd just talk to me.”
Marisol took one long, final gulp from her mug before rising and bringing it over to the bussing tray. She picked up her guitar and headed out the door, only to stop about six feet from it and sit down, cross-legged. The case opened, and the instrument came to rest in her lap, and her expression dissolved into a bright, energetic smile.
She played and sang.
Ted stood in the gathering crowd and clapped for each song, even though he knew she couldn't hear him.
Eventually she stood up to shake out her legs, not pausing. Ted walked up to her and studied her-really studied her-in a way he hadn't in a long time.
“God, you're beautiful,” he declared. “I can't believe I ever forgot that. How did I ever let myself forget that? I feel like I'm seeing you for the first time, like I did the literal first time I saw you. Do you remember that? You have to remember that. It was at that outdoor concert, and you were wearing that sundress. And your lips were plump, and your eyes were large and brown, and your black hair was up in a bun that strands of it were trying to escape from. And somehow I found the courage to talk to you. And you smiled, and it was amazing. And I made a joke, and you laughed, and I went crazy for you. Then you gave me your number. God that was so long ago.”
He kept his thoughts to himself over the next four hours as she performed and received tips from passing pedestrians and coffee house patrons. She eventually stopped and picked up all the cash, stuffing it in her pocket and returning the guitar to the case. He followed her as she walked to the bus and boarded. When she got off, he considered letting her go, but he decided to stick with her.
Her trip home from the bus stop was a lot faster and more intense than the opposite one. He quickened his pace to keep up, then watched, enraptured, as she stepped over a portion of sidewalk that had buckled due to a tree root.
“You probably didn't notice that,” he sneered, “you probably didn't even care, but I remember the bump you just skipped past. I remember you gazing at me as we walked along, telling me that we'd have the cutest children, and then you tripped over it. I don't know what you were more embarrassed about-blurting the thing about kids when we were only dating for two weeks, or nearly falling on your ass. But you shouldn't have been embarrassed, because that moment was one of the first inklings of love I had for you. And you just walked right past it.”
He stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “It's like you've forgotten how to love me.” He shouted, “When did this happen?”
He jogged after her until she reached her apartment. She locked and unlocked doors, and Ted slipped through walls like they were curtains. He found himself in that living room where they had spent so much time together.
She sat down on the couch and picked up the TV remote. She then put the remote down and picked up her phone instead.
Ted sighed. “This couch. This couch means so much to me. How many times did we make love on this couch? Or maybe not just 'make love'-how many times did we fuck like animals here? When was the last time? I don't remember.
“And then there was three days ago, when you told me I wasn't invited to drinks with your friends. Me, your boyfriend, not invited to go with you, my girlfriend. What were you thinking? Better yet, what were you doing that you didn't want me to see? Where do you get off blowing up like that?”
She roared, “Oh, would you just shut up?”
Ted staggered back and took in a deep, airless breath. “It's okay, Ted, she obviously wasn't talking to you.”
Marisol bolted to her feet and looked him straight in the eye. “No, Ted, I'm speaking directly to you.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “I have been listening to you monologue all fucking morning, and I am sick of it.”
“Well, gee, Marisol, I'm so sorry that I care for you so much.”
She closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened them again. She snarled, “Do you want to know why you weren't invited to drinks? Because you would have been miserable. I know how you operate. You would have sat there, boredom coming off of you like body odor, and it would have made everybody uncomfortable. They would try to entice you into the conversation, and you would give them one-word answers.”
“That's not how-”
“I've seen you do it!” she snapped. “And you were not going to ruin my night. Not when you ruin so many others by not doing anything.”
Ted objected, “I do stuff.”
Marisol held up four fingers. “You come home from work. We eat. We watch TV. We go to bed. I can't live like that. I'm twenty-five years old! I should be out having fun!”
“But I thought we were having fun.”
“You never asked me,” she told him. “You never asked me how I was doing or what I wanted to do. You just assumed I was okay with what you wanted to do. You just assumed I was okay, even if I clearly wasn't.”
“I-”
“And by the way,” she continued, “we've been together for three years, and you've forgotten two-thirds of my birthdays. That's like, Boyfriend 101.”
“Sorry.”
“I know you're sorry,” she groaned. “You're always sorry. But you don't ever change.”
“But, but,” he stammered, “I thought you loved me.”
“I did love you,” she replied. “I loved the quirky, spontaneous, fun Ted. I have no idea who this guy is.”
Ted felt like he was going to cry, but no tears came. Maybe ghosts didn't have any. “It sounds like you're breaking up with me.”
She folded her arms. “I guess I am.”
“But I'm dead!”
“All the more reason for you to go away,” she told him.
“But...”
“Just go!”
Ted hung his head and walked through the wall.
Marisol gave him a few moments before she collapsed on the couch and wept.