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Lost and Gone Forever
I wrote this story for my Senior English class. Note that the title is also the name of a fabulous Guster c.d. and song. Props.
�Honey, do we have to watch the Brewers game again?� I asked with a sigh. �We already saw the game at the ballpark, and believe me, once was enough.� �I want to see the batter from a different perspective, preferably at a twenty degree angle tangent to the pitcher�s mound,� he replied sounding as though he made up geometric scenarios like this everyday. �Do you even know what you�re talking about?� �Well, I�m not quite sure about the tangent part, but I can�t�� he trailed off while intently watching the screen as though he were searching for one of those darned needles that, for some odd reason, are in a haystack. �You can�t what?� I asked, though I knew he was lost and gone forever � or at least until the end of the game. I leaned back in the sofa we were sharing, catching a whiff of the sweet, familiar Stetson cologne. The aroma caused me to reminisce about the day I first laid my eyes, and my nose, on Owen. As I was strolling through the produce department, comparing the firmness of two cantaloupes, I smelled the most intoxicating cologne in the world. �I bet even Brad Pitt doesn�t smell this good,� I thought to myself. I turned to find the source of this most inviting bouquet, only to see the most gorgeous crystal blue eyes staring at my cantaloupes. The fruit in my hands, that is. �Umm, do you want one?� I said casually, though my armpits were wetter than a used umbrella. �Are they ripe?� he asked in a voice deeper than that of Barry White, though I later discovered this was his sole flirting mechanism. In actuality, his pubescent voice made him seem more like a nerdy sixteen year-old boy than a strapping 26 year-old chap with a chiseled physique, complete with so many toned muscles that he could have been a model in any Anatomy textbook. Despite the whiny pitch of his real voice, I melted at the sound of his baritone imitation of Barry, barely able to say that I didn�t know how to tell if they were ripe or rotten. He then took out his pocketknife, which I thought he was going to use to carve me into a million miniscule cubes and feed to the Rottweiler that he undoubtedly had. However, he merely cut open a cantaloupe to reveal the pale orange flesh of the fruit. �Looks ripe to me,� he said with a grin that showcased his perfectly straight, white teeth. He bagged the fruit and placed it into my cart, which was already overflowing with an assortment of gourmet chocolates, like Snickers, and select packages of noodles and powdered cheese. �Oh, hey�thanks,� I replied with what was probably a totally dorky smile. �By the way, can I have your number?� he asked in the bluntest way possible. And with that, our grocery date became a phone call, which became a date, which became another date, which became a few more dates, and that�s basically where the story has ended for the last two months. �So, Owen, did the Brewers lose 11 to 2?� I asked with a knowing smile. �Oh Shelly, how did you know?� �I�m just psychic, silly.� I giggled as he tickled me, like we were still in the second grade, and he was my first crush. Eventually, he left my apartment, cherishing one last kiss for the road, as he could get run over by a flaming drunkard on the four-minute drive back to his house and never see me again. Not that we worried about such fatal things, as we were only 27 and death was light-years away. �I heart you, Shellybean,� he whispered, sealing it with a kiss on my nose. �I love you, too,� I whispered back into his ear. He walked to his so-called sporty Pontiac, which was only sporty because it was jet black, not because it bore any resemblance to a Corvette. I dreamily sauntered to my room, thinking about the perfect white satin dress to wear at our wedding, even though no date had been set and Owen had not even asked me. A girl can dream, especially about the wedding dress. Tastefully placed bows along the back of my gown, or maybe the front, would be nice. Or maybe bows were tacky, no matter how tastefully placed they were. I could always go with the twelve-foot train that could only be carried by more than four attendants. Do they even make twelve-foot trains? I was broken out of my trance by an obnoxious vibration in my pocket followed by the tune, �Here Comes the Bride.� I flipped open my cell phone, wondering who in their right mind would call at half past twelve. Apparently my manager. �Michelle, there�s a job opening at Prot�g� Corporation in which I think you�d be interested,� he said, imbedding suspense and excitement into my nonexistent mind at that hour. �Couldn�t it wait,� I asked with an impatient sigh. �No, we need you to decide ASAP! Would you be willing to move to New York City for a position as chief engineer at the Prot�g� Headquarters? Your pay would increase threefold!� I did the math in my head and realized that the significant increase in my pay would fully finance my dream wedding. I assured myself that I would undoubtedly marry Owen regardless of the generous distance between New York and Milwaukee. �I�ll take it!� I said without hesitation. * * * �I know this will put a strain on our relationship, but it will work out in the end�I promise,� I pleaded, kidding Owen and myself that this would not be our final farewell. With a burning pain in my throat that would not subside, I held back my tears and gave him one last kiss, albeit we still had an hour before the flight attendants would even begin pre-boarding the families with young children who needed extra time to settle. �Sweetheart, you�re doing the right thing,� he asserted almost too calmly, making me feel somewhat rejected. I became suspicious that he was hiding another girl in the backseat of his car to kiss and hug as soon as my plane lifted off the ground. I looked around the crowd for any familiar female faces that could be the culprit but then realized I was driving myself crazy. �I just don�t want this to hurt our relationship. You know I love you!� I desperately replied, adding one juicy kiss so he knew what he would be missing if he dumped me for the bimbo in the backseat. �I�ve been thinking about that,� he stated again all too casually and without tears. �Maybe we should, as they say, �put our relationship on pause.�� �Okay, nobody says that. And why do we need to take a break?� I asked angrily, suddenly feeling my imagination of the girl in the backseat come to fruition as I visualized Owen kissing some other woman�s lips. �Well, baby, you�ll be in New York City, and you need to concentrate on your job. I thought that maybe we could take advantage of this opportunity to test our love by seeing other people. You know, so we�ll know for sure that we�re meant to be together,� he tried to explain, avoiding my darting eyes. �If that�s how you really feel,� I started. �If you�re filled with such doubt that you can�t even�If you have reservations or qualms or, or something that you can�t promise�� �Please don�t cry. I�m doing this for the betterment of our relationship. Sort of like a final bachelorhood for me. If you don�t want me to have some time for myself, that�s fine. But do you really want me to live in regret for the rest of my life, always wondering if we were meant for each other or if I should have hooked up with the waitress at Joe�s Crab Shack?� he retorted, suddenly placing the guilt on innocent, little Shelly. �If that�s how you really feel, just leave. It�s not like we�re married, or even engaged,� I retorted with disgust, trying to prove that I wasn�t the one getting hurt. �Ugh, screw it! This relationship is over.� I stormed to the water fountain, never looking over my shoulder to ensure that he was following. Rather, I assumed that he would come chasing after me as he had done so many times before, whether I was storming away from him in the mall after he told me the black dress made me look fat or navigating through the crowds at the Brewers game with linked arms. As I took a sip of water, though I was not even the slightest bit parched, I inconspicuously glanced to the gate and saw him still standing by my briefcase. Why had he not followed me? As I boarded the plane, I still did not look at him, hoping he would take the hint and apologize to me first. Perhaps he would run down the ramp for one more kiss and an apology. Then sitting uncomfortably in seat 27B between an obese man eating Doritos and a woman gabbing on her cell phone, I prayed that the pilot would call me to the front of the plane where I would find Owen with arms waiting open for me. Even as the plane left the runway, I thought that maybe we would have an emergency landing because Owen thought I left my inhaler for my �intense case of asthma� in his coat pocket. Any fib would do as long as the plane landed so that he could apologize for being a complete jerk. Or maybe he was waiting for me to make the first move. If only I had turned around, I could have seen him crying or holding a sign that said, �Will you marry me?� I could have just missed the most twisted yet romantic proposal ever! When I finally arrived in New York and hauled my luggage into the greasy backseat of the taxi, I realized, after one quick, harmless glance at the driver to see if it was my ex-lover, that Owen was history. All I had left were memories of a rotten cantaloupe by the time it got to my apartment and long-gone dreams of our perfect wedding underneath a flowered arch at my childhood country club where I could profess my love for him in front of hundreds of my relatives. I was officially 799.52 miles away from Owen, and I still wasn�t over him.
