1
min

Underground

Image of saracurnow

saracurnow

23 readings

13 votes

In competition

It’s been nearly fourteen years, but there you were on my morning commute. On your way to work like nothing had happened. Both of us on our ways to work as if nothing had happened.

You looked good. Older, sure, hair starting to thin. But I could see the remnants of your tan summer teenage self even now: your long limbs still slender under work clothes, the same dark eyes.

I’d never seen you in a suit. We were children then, not a part of each other’s families enough to tag along to weddings or funerals, or even church. It made you look—please forgive me—a little nerdy, and in that instant I could imagine the last decade working out for you the way it had for many of us: college to job, job to job, job to the grocery store and home to make dinner and deal with the bills and the broken sink and the entropy.

Would you have kids? I couldn’t decide.

You left before Mark Zuckerberg was a household name, which is to say we’d never made any lasting internet connection. You never had a Facebook account, not one I could find, though your younger sister did and over the years I’d glanced at it occasionally hoping to see photos of you.

I thought of you, sure. Of those long limbs sticking out of a trash bag that time I picked you up in a rainstorm, those dark eyes grinning as you’d used the quarter vacuum at the town carwash (why you loved that thing I still don’t know), or a dozen other scenarios too commonplace to mention except they’d happened with you when you weren’t just a face I thought I recognized on the subway.

The subway moved underground through center city. You didn’t look up. I wanted to text someone but there was no one to text. None of my current friends had ever met you. This was happening to me alone, and when I walked out of the car onto the platform I’d be leaving you behind again.

I think this to myself and it surprises me. Again? You’d done the leaving. But I had too: I’d gone college to job, boyfriend to boyfriend to husband. I’d dealt with the bills and the broken sink and the entropy. I’d moved on, like one does, and was on my way to work wearing clothes that hid my summer self, staring at a stranger with my own dark eyes.

It wasn’t you after all. It couldn’t have been. You weren’t older, with thinning hair. You were twenty forever. I’d moved on and you were dead.

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Roger · ago
I found the ending enigmatic Sara, I liked the internal conversation about the boy. Were they lovers or just childhood friends? The story raised a lot of questions. I enjoyed it. I hope you'll take a look at mine 'Dia de los Muertos' I hope you like it
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