SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Sunday, Mar. 30, 2003 @ 12:18 am
What happened on the 'Shore



Dave. I wonder if I'll run into Dave... or anyone really. It's 3pm on a Saturday, and I'm in the village. I should have got my hair cut; it's a wild beast. Which bank should I put my paycheque in? Hmm left right left right... I hear guitars to the right....

My inner dialogue was interrupted as I locked eyes with Dave though the potted trees outside the coffee shop.

He jumps up across a bench, and in the brief second before he tackle-hugged me I saw who he was with: generic punk band people. And then Mel came around the corner. I haven't talked to her since New Years and even then it was brief and half-drunk. The three of us chit-chatted out in the rain a bit, then we went inside to sit down.

Dave bought me tea.

It was hard to have a real conversation with him because she was there too. She is more than just an aquaintance, she is really a friend, but I find it hard to talk to her most of the time. Our astrological signs must clash. I always feel like a fool smiling and laughing and talking because she is so serious. Or something. She NEEDS to be center of attention.

They were in the village to visit Dave's dog. The dog has been licking concrete and now has a sidewalk growing in his intestine.

Eventually her boyfriend/husband came to pick her up and Dave and I went for a walk-and-talk.

When I locked eyes with him though that tree, I could tell that things haven't been good. My suspicions were confirmed. He's not working. He didn't take any courses this semester. Those two things aren't the cause, though, they are a symptom.

"This is day 10 without a cigarette," he says. So I know he's struggling for change.

He is so gaunt. Thinner than I ever remember. And his skin is all transparent grey. His hair is growing out of a buzz cut - too long to spike up - too short to fall over evenly - just looks scary. Actually, come to think of it, he is a scary-looking guy.

"Yeah, it's been bad for a while."

I don't even need to ask. I hug him again, harder than he's hugging me for once. I fiercly want to talk with him again. There was nothing better than sneaking in though his window and snuggling in under his comforter to talk late at night. The darkness hid my face and his we were voices and people above everything else. He knows so much, he's got so much figured out for someone who fails to apply himself at school. I trust him. And this is why I hug him so tightly: he brought me up when I was down. At the very same time I brought him up.

And lying on the deck of the sailboat with his hand tracing the scar of my stomach... blowing towards Bowen... I knew that I'd let him down. In all the bliss, in all my selfish indecisions, I let him go. I threw him down, away. Everyone told me I was right to move on. I 'deserved' more. In retrospect I have to say that They were all wrong.

I watch him walk down away past the florist. His shoulders hunch under an invisible burden. Invisible. Burden. Invisible. A bus whooshes by and breaks my stare. They were all wrong.


Roots | Shoots