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Loneliness And Prada Sunglasses
“And how are we feeling today?”
She asks.
Fake,
fake smile.
So fake,
it makes me
cringe.
But,
at least
she’s trying…
Right?
Wrong.
That’s when I spot them.
Those Prada sunglasses,
placed
fashionably, deliberately,
on her head.
Hair
pulled back.
A statement.
They wink at me,
those
Prada sunglasses.
I am tempted,
strangely
tempted,
to wink back.
I do not.
Instead, I stare
silently
mutely
at my hand.
Raw cuticles.
Fingernails bitten down
to the
quick.
Remnants
of plum-colored
nail polish.
Ugly.
My own eyes
desert me,
seeking
a more
appealing picture.
Her hands.
Long,
slender fingers.
Manicured, white-tipped
nails
tap
on the desk-
tap…
tap…
tap.
A picture
of
perfection.
Something
is whispered.
Silence.
A sigh. Then-
“I’m sorry,”
she says.
Empty words.
Hollow
sounds.
I
blink.
Look away.
Blink again.
It comes
once more,
that voice.
Draped
with plastic,
hiding the
cold, cold reality.
“What was that?”
She asks.
Innocent eyes.
Innocent face.
She wants to help,
I know.
But
she can’t.
No one can.
“I feel,”
I say.
Voice trails.
Tears glisten.
The red clock,
in the
corner.
It ticks once,
loudly.
A fly buzzes,
lands on
my
woolen sweater.
I do not bother
to brush it
away.
They stare back
at me.
Innocent eyes.
Murky brown,
like
melting chocolate.
I close
my
eyes.
“Help me,”
I think.
I struggle…
remembering
recalling.
Then,
surrender comes,
like fog
rolling
into the valley below.
“Lonely,”
I whisper.
There.
It’s out now.
The fly
is still perched
on my
woolen sweater.
The one I got
for Christmas.
The one
she gave me.
Right before
she
left.
Gone, now.
Gone
forever.
She says
nothing.
I sit there
in my own
filth,
in my own
silence.
“Self pity,”
I think scornfully,
but do nothing
to stop
myself.
Still,
she says nothing.
I do not
bother
to look up.
My eyes, still
glued
to the fly
perched
on my woolen sweater.
It is mesmerizing.
Comforting.
I stare
and stare….
and stare….
seeing nothing.
Remembering
the pain.
Recalling
the memories.
How had it felt?
The day she
left…
The day she
died.
Gone, now.
Gone
forever.
Still,
she says nothing.
Still,
I do not look up,
but
stare instead at the fly
perched
on my
ugly,
ugly
woolen sweater.
Sitting before her,
her with those
manicured nails and
Prada sunglasses,
I am
at once
painfully aware
of my appearance.
The shoes,
splattered
with paint.
The saggy black pants.
And, of course,
that
fuzzy maroon woolen sweater.
The one
she gave me
for
Christmas.
Tears fall
freely, now.
Not
pretty tears.
I am
ashamed,
but cannot stop.
Burying my sorrow
in a
tissue,
I sob and sob,
pouring my heart out
to
this lady,
this lady
with Prada sunglasses
placed
deliberately
on her gleaming head.
I
mumble things.
Things
I had been hiding
inside,
promising that
I would not show them
to anyone.
Yet
here I am.
“Gone, now…”
I sob.
Broken hearted.
Starved and beaten.
“Gone forever,”
I say
and scream, a quiet scream,
a scream that
terrifies
me.
Yet
it is enlightening,
somehow.
Remarkable.
I am
finished now.
I can already
feel myself
beginning to
heal.
My heart-
it is warmer.
It will take time,
I know.
I sniff once.
Sniff again.
The red clock,
in the corner-
it sniffs
with me,
loudly.
The fly.
It is absent from
the
sleeve of my
woolen sweater.
I notice
that it is pretty now,
that sweater.
Beautiful,
even.
My eyes flutter,
searching…
searching…
searching....
Then-
I spot it.
That treacherous little fly.
There it perches,
basking
on the rim
of those Prada sunglasses
placed crookedly
on her tilted
head.
Her eyes
are
closed,
mouth slightly open,
and a snore
fills
the quiet room.
It is just
another needle
in my dead,
dying
heart.
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