Monday, August 08, 2005

On the Loss of a Friend

She stared in disbelief as the woman she presumed to be her best friend continued down the sidewalk, barely glancing up from the rim of her coffee cup as she called her name. “Come on, get moving,” a voice grunted from behind. She had stopped mid-pace and was holding up the rush-hour sidewalk traffic down Main Street.

This woman, with whom she had spent the bulk of her life laughing and gossiping, pretended not to see her as she passed. Was this the same girl who cried about boys on the phone every night as a teenager? Was she the same college graduate who worked twelve hours a day and sometimes weekends to pay off her acquired debt? Was she the same best friend who supported every bad fashion choice, ill-advised hair cut, and drunken rage?

Surely that woman – that girl, that best friend – wouldn’t have been more concerned with her Irish crème latte than the welfare of the woman who used to be her best friend.

She began walking again, much slower this time, her thoughts weighing her down like bricks in her backpack. A now-meaningless fight five years ago had left the pair in unspoken decomposition. Neither had gotten to say their part, and so neither felt forgiven; for five years, both had been at fault but it had somehow been easier to blame the other. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had anything good to say about the formerly best of her friends.

She had – for five years – always been reluctant to give away the title to someone else. No one else seemed to fit the description. When she told of her crazed fantasies and unattainable dreams, the eyes of others' became glossy with judgment and mockery where the earlier best friend’s only shone with understanding, support, and friendly humor. She – who had long dreamed of fancy weddings and big parties – had given in to her fiancé’s request for a small, sparsely attended affair because she couldn’t bear to think about choosing a maid of honor other than her childhood confidant, her past best friend.

Though she was happy with her new way of life and the bulk of the choices she’d made throughout, she had never been able to shake the feeling of emptiness when studying that portion of her life – the portion where she tucked away the fondest memories and the most meaningful experiences. It seemed there had forever been a tear in need of patching, but she couldn’t find the right materials to fix it without ruining the entire package.


Frema said...

Hi, Becky.

Nice, but still waiting for pictures of apartment and car. Yours, not mine, in case that wasn't clear.

Luke said...

Maybe some pictures of your apartment will prove once and for all whether or not the place is actually haunted.

Also, if you are having problems with someone, you could consider leaking embarrasing news about the person to the local media, or maybe few names could just be slipped into the police blotter. Not that ever happens. I'm just saying...

Roger Stevens said...

Maybe she should call.

Or maybe that was the best-friend's secret twin she passed.