Obsession

He checked the time on the lower right corner of the computer screen. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and for whatever reason, she walked by the cubicle day at that time every day. Today, she seemed to be late, and he was about to give up when he heard the sound of feet brushing against carpet, coming closer and closer.

Suddenly, his midsection came to life like an aviary full of butterflies. He felt her presence. The scent of her luscious perfume filled his nose, his whole being. He closed his eyes tightly. She was like no other – languid, sophisticated, graceful. She turned easily like a sheer curtain disturbed and twisted by a sudden breeze. He knew he shouldn’t, but when the time came, he pushed his open palms against the edge of the table, and with one great push, shot backwards. The chair stopped at the edge of the cubicle.

Slowly, he leaned back, and cast a glance out beyond the barrier. He felt his insides fall like someone who yearns for a sunset to last for hours. Lusting, yet his throat constricted with the hard lump of falling in love, he watched the back of her shoulders go back and forth in a tight, but fluid 1-2-1-2 rhythm, the rest of her body following. Arms, back, hips, curvaceous bottom, legs and feet, flowed into one smooth form that transfixed him even after she disappeared out of view. It was only when a passing co-worker asked if he was alright that he snapped out of his daydream. He replied that he was, and he pedaled himself back to his desk.

The Rabbit's Death

She felt it like a stray bullet grazes flesh - suddenly, strangely, as if it never happened at all. She stared at the images on the screen. They seemed meaningless like they had no connection to her life. The words that came from the actor's mouths sounded foreign. They were garbled, jumbled, twirling and tumbling about her head like thick pink blobs inside a lava lamp. She had wondered how she would feel, often questioned herself about what she would do the moment it happened. Would she break down and cry or would she feel numb? Yet, nothing had happened that she knew of. It could be a trick of her mind, a projected fear. She'd felt that before, and when she'd go to check, all was well.

She looked ahead at the staircase that led up. The bare bulb on ceiling of the second floor cast a murky, feverish light on the runners. It seemed to bleed like a seeping wound down to the landing by the front door. Van Gogh, the Night Cafe, she thought. In a twisted way, it beckoned her to go up and see. Life sucks, she thought. It's far from pretty. There's always something to overcome, to recover from. Just when it seems that things have found their levels, something comes along to smash the balance. When she thought she was over Buddy, some little snatch of him would shimmer in her mind like a mirage, and he and his ridiculous presence would overtake her. For whatever reason, here he was again. She imaged what he might be thinking. Of course, he'd say nothing, but that smirk would say it all - that damned, stupid smirk. Asshole, it's not just a rabbit. It's meant so much more.

The anger propelled her up the stairs

Constant In All Other Things

Marion felt a stabbing pain in the muscles around her neck. This was often the case. The doctor said it was probably due to the unbalance of walking around with a cane. He prescribed muscle relaxers. Usually, she took them only when the pain was severe. Tonight was one of those times.
  
She hobbled into the bathroom, opened up the medicine cabinet, and took out the bottle of pills. After she swallowed two with a swig of water, she put the bottle back, and closed the cabinet door. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her neck was swollen and red. She twisted it slowly from side to side, but the pain was so sharp that she had to stop. 

The Cat Scans and X-Rays showed that there had been improvements, but it sure didn't feel that way. The doctor told her the recovery would be difficult and long, and that she must be patient. What he didn't say was that she might not be the same; that what she suffered in the accident would permanently diminish her ability to move about freely. She felt this in all the little things she did. Climbing stairs, rolling out of bed, driving a car - things she'd once taken for granted had become exercises in endurance and pain management. Even sweeping the kitchen floor sent her back into spasms. Sometimes, it got to the point of where all she wanted to do was lay down, and not get up again.

She turned off the light, and walked across the hall to the front t.v. room. She sat down in a chair next to the window. Tonight, her friend, Cornell, was picking her up to see a movie. She stared out the window into the darkness, and waited for the arrival of the Powder Blue Dodge Dart.

Two cars passed illuminating the street with their headlights. 

Lately, she'd begun to debate the validity of her friendship with Cornell. He was seriously starting to annoy her. Where she was conversant, he was reticent. Where she gave him extended feedback, his answers were simply yeses or nos, or just silence. Initially, she thought the silences were signs of depth and wisdom, but as she got to know him, it became clear that there was nothing but silence in the silences, and, most likely, that would not change. 

Another car zoomed past.

Was she being a bit paranoid, or had she noticed that certain people had stopped calling her? When she called them, they often had convenient excuses for not getting together. In some ways, she couldn't blame them. Being with her meant being more patient. They had to move more slowly - even help her to step over a curb or take her arm while climbing stairs. She was limited in the distance she could travel or the time she could spend doing activities. She tired easily, and had to rest often. Being with her was a start and stop proposition. She could see what a drag it could be for others. 

She saw headlights gradually flood the front yard by the curb and sidewalk. Then she saw the car. It slowed down, and came to a halt. It was Cornell in his 1979 Dodge Dart. 

He cut the headlights, but kept the car running. From the dull light of a street lamp close by, she could see his partially lit silhouette. He stared ahead, and waited for her to come out as was his custom. Marion considered what she could make out of his features. He wore a t-shirt that bulged into a small hill at his mid-section. Covering his stringy blonde hair was a baseball cap. Though hard to see in the darkness, but knowing him well, his skin was pale and smooth, making him look almost a decade younger than his forty-five years. 

Once, when they went for a walk, he shared the story of how as a sixteen year old, he came face to face with a doe in the woods. At first, they stared at each other from about forty yards, then every few minutes, they inched closer, until, finally, they stood within seven feet of each other. For how long they stood there, he couldn't tell. In the end, in a sudden motion, the doe ran back into the woods never to be seen again. She asked him if he attached any particular meaning to the experience. He thought about it for a moment. Then he said, no, he was just lucky to be at the right place at the right time. It was simply a gift of Nature.

Marion hungered for more insights, but they didn't come. One time, she asked him what it was like growing up. He responded by saying it was very ordinary, and that there was nothing to write home about. She pressed him - did he stay in touch with friends from that time? No, was his answer, the past was the past. He smiled at her, then walked ahead, staring up at the clouds as if she wasn't there.

She looked at her cell phone on the table next to where she sat. Should she cancel out? That would be rude. She didn't like it when people canceled out on her at the last minute. Besides, it would be a relief to get out of the house. 

She strained her eyes, and contemplated him once again. He was still staring off into the distance. She wondered what he was thinking. What did he really want to say? Should she ask him? Then again, why should she? She probably knew the answer already.


She heaved herself out of her seat, and ambled downstairs. Just before opening the front door, she peered out the peep hole. What could possibly compel him to stare in the same direction for so long? You'd think he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, but, in reality, he was probably just debating whether to have his popcorn with or without butter.

Marion walked out the door. She closed it, locked it, and headed down the walkway. Despite being in the grip of agony, she moved like she was on a mission. As Cornell came closer and closer into view, she tried to push back the annoying thoughts about him. She cast her stare down, but her mind flooded with the incident at Dairy Queen. She gave him a twenty dollar bill, and asked him to pick out something for the both of them. He came back with with a large hot fudge sundae for himself, and a small vanilla cone for her. Often, when they went to restaurants or shops, he'd rush ahead, open a door, walk inside, and let it close on her. And yet, he was not evil. There was nothing truly malicious about him. He never said anything bad about other people, or gossiped. It was just that he didn't say anything about anything. He was quiet, and kept to himself - not like many of the other people she knew. Did she really have a right to judge him so harshly? 

As she neared the car, she slowed down. She felt the pain stab her back. She closed her eyes and winced. It was so horrible, she felt like crying. Then she heard a car door creak open, and feet rush across pavement. When she opened her eyes, Cornell was standing in front of her. 

"You okay?" he asked. 

"Honestly - no, but why complain?" she replied. He turned, and opened the door. Reaching out, he took her hand, and guided her to the door. Grasping her upper arms, he helped her angle herself onto the seat. Before he closed the door, Marion looked up at him. "Thank you, Cornell, that was awfully nice of you." He smiled, and shut her door. He went around to his side, and got into the car. As he was turning the key in the ignition, Marion turned to him.

"Do I talk too much?" she asked. He turned to her, and paused for a moment. "No," he replied.

"You could tell me - I won't be offended," she said.

He looked off with a grin. "You're fine the way you are," he said. She smiled. They drove away. She wouldn't tell him now, but when they got to the theater, and it came time to buy tickets, she'd step ahead, and pay for his, too.