Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Designated Driver

She's gone.  The thought gusted through Damian's brain, spreading like wildfire on dry brush, igniting an inferno in his breast.  It was the mug that paid the ultimate price.  With a wordless cry of rage, Damian wound up and threw a strike directly into the waiting mitt of the plaster catcher that masqueraded as an apartment wall.

Unfortunately, the mitt wasn't ready.  It cracked under pressure.  Literally.  Though it did succeed in catching the mug, sans handle, which ripped free and went cartwheeling through the air.  The newly liberated piece of plastic came to rest inside of the dusty rectangle that indicated the former location of an end table.

Ha ha! Inigo exulted.

Damian sighed.  He didn't like letting his temper get the best of him.  In high school, he'd been known to punch things.  Not people, mind you, but things.  Like lockers.  Or cinder-block walls.  It wasn't uncommon for him to return home from school with ripped knuckles.  He'd probably even broken them on ocassion, though he would never have admitted that.  The pain was refreshing.  It cleared his cloudy mind.

Shoulders slumped, the young man crossed the room as if approaching a funeral pyre.  His steps were a dirge.  His downcast eyes, a requiem.  Defeat donned a finer cloak than this poor soul.  Yet, beneath it all, the rage smoldered.

The mug came free of the wall with a puff of plaster.  Damian ignore the mess.  He crossed the room, entering the kitchen, and rinsed out the drinking implement.  Cold coffee mingled with water in the drain.  The white dust was still on the side of the mug when he set it aside for tomorrow.

He marched back across the floor and sank into the lone recliner.  The footrest would no longer retract, so Damian had no choice but to prop his feet up.  His scuffed loafers stared at the lone bulb burning above as Damian's green eyes found the spot where the TV had been.  He stared at the wall.

This is quite the melancholy, Inigo noted.  I believe you are even making me sad.

She's gone, Damian repeated.

Of course she is.  That is the way of women, my friend.  They come and they go, eh?  Might as well get used to it.

But I loved her.

Inigo chuckled.  Perhaps.  However, I believe she did not share in your feelings.

Damian wanted to cry, but the tears would not come.  He simply felt hollow. 

Trust me when I say it is for the best, friend, Inigo said.  She was not right for you.

Damian wanted to argue, but couldn't.  The relationship had been rocky at best.  He had seen this end coming from miles away.  It had always only been a matter of when.  Even now, he found himself forgetting her name.  It wasn't important.  Just another in a long line of failed relationships.  Why did he always let himself fall so easily? 

I say we find a tavern and drink her away, Inigo suggested.

Solitude seemed dangerous right now.  Damian stood up and walked to the front door.  It was still open to the night.  The keys were on the floor.  He scooped them up.

I'll drive, Inigo offered.

Damian nodded.  He let the voice take over.


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