On Monday for my Write Anything column, I wrote about interior monologues in literature and put out the challenge to readers, to sit for 10 minutes and write one. Here is my effort, with just a little editing.
… I shouldn’t be here. I’ll put my hazard lights on. It will look like I’m lost, or having engine trouble. Or I’ve taken a phone call and I’m doing the right thing. Pulling over to the side of the road. See – doing the right thing… the right thing. Here and doing the right thing.
The flooring shop is now an office of some sort and the café down the road – gone. When I worked at the bakery they used to order their hot dog and hamburger buns from us. That was the year after I first came here. Or was it two? Certainly not three.
The houses across the road are different. I look once and then twice. Looking for the white and green one.
I’m walking down your street again. Past your door…
… a green front door and squeaky wire one. All cream and burgundy now. Tittle-tattle wire door gone.
But you don’t live there any more. It is years since you lived there…
… no one lives there. It is a business now.
There’s the wire gate. It hasn’t changed. That’s the gate I went through in the pouring rain. We were yelling. I was crying and saying I wasn’t coming back again. He didn’t yell back. He didn’t beg me to stay. He stood there. Stood there at the gate in the pouring rain and watched me leave. Was he crying like me? Rain covers your tracks. I always meant to ask him if he cried that night.
Now you’ve disappeared somewhere … you found some better place. And I miss you… like the deserts miss the rain.
It is the song which reminds me of him. No wonder I’m sitting here singing it in my head. Can’t think now who sings it. It was on the charts when we were together. It is like that song spoke to some deeper part of me and stayed like an echo – echo-echo-echo… a song trying to reach the sensible bit of me which knew nothing good would ever come of him and me.
Guys who have girlfriends… they are bad news. You don’t love someone who is already tangled with someone else. The tangle becomes an ugly mess. And you pretend it will all be OK when it can never be OK.
Oh, we were so good at pretending. Pretending we were just friends. Pretending we could be together and not feel guilty for it. Pretending not to be there… the squash of the space between the bottom of his mattress and the carpet. Hiding. Always hiding. Lying.
Listening to voices. Waiting. The wire door screaming – pointing its finger at me. Fleeing to my car in the dead of night parked just up there… up the street outside someone else’s house.
Where is he now? Does he ever think of me? Does he even live in this town still? Does he drive his car past my old house? Sit out the front like this. Hazard lights flashing… warning, warning. Heed the warning. Drive on.
Authors Note: There wil be another one coming at some stage this week – which bounces straight from Dorothy Parker’s interior monologue/short story “One on the Right”.
Image via Travel Pod