sarah

Coughing pipes and falling rain and she says, "Here. Kill the headlights and park it here. And no, you can't come in."
Some people enjoy the delay. Delayed gratification. They say you appreciate things more when you deprive yourself of joy, salvation. Then, when you finally get a bite, it will taste even sweeter.
Me, I've learned to delay the inevitable.
Her name was Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. All I wanted was some company, conversation. Blankets for cold bones. Ointment for a chapped wound.
Trapped inside this vehicle there is the sound of rain. Coughing pipes. And I'm the driver, the man behind the wheel. What happened?
Beautiful Sarah, what happened?

We met a few months ago in a room full of loud music and cigarette smoke. A room full of hot bodies, breathing and sweating, yelling just to be heard. Red cups. Blue cups. Yellow cups. The smell of beer.
For most, it was a night full of expectation. Me, I was looking for a way out. An excuse. An exit.
And then I saw her.
She was in a corner, crouched and screaming into a cellular phone in some kind of vain attempt to take refuge from the senseless chaos and make contact with the outside world. The inflated nothing, it was pulsating throughout the room, terrorizing the walls. Everywhere. Our eyes met and she slammed her phone shut.
"Was that a call for help?" I jokingly asked.
"What?" she yelled in reply.
"I said, was that a call for help?" I asked again, this time louder. Hideous frequencies of sound screamed from speakers, pushing me to the breaking point.
She laughed and pointed to the front door and yelled, "Lets step outside."
Outside and under burning stars we both sighed in relief. I let the cool 2 am air saturate my lungs like clean water to the gills of a dying fish.
"Yes. Yes. Breathing. This is better," I said.
"I feel like a survivor from a plane crash. Whatta mess," she joked and extended her hand. "I'm Sarah, by the way. What's your name?"
My name isn't important because this story isn't about me. This story is about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah.
We strolled away from the wreckage and she shared stories, chronicled her disappointments, her dreams. We wandered into an all-nite cafe where Peggy The Waitress sat us at a booth overlooking a dark and desolate motorway. The occasional car glided past. Headlights fading in. Taillights fading out. We ordered coffee, buttermilk pancakes and more conversation.
A carafe poured coffee. Sarah's mouth poured words. Was there some sexual attraction there? Yes, but I paid the desire no mind. I wasn't looking for touching, kissing or sex. No. Just to have an actual conversation with an actual person was enthralling enough. I didn't need sex. I needed contact. A safety device. I needed Sarah.
In that cafe, she reminded me of something that I had long since forgotten: Every moment of every day is filled with human beings reacting and interacting with their environment. Real people. Real lives. Fading in. Fading out.
Her small hands cradled the cup of coffee and she hinted at past damage. Jagged remnants of ruins cluttered her heart. There was Brian and his cold demeanor; Thomas and his calculating ways; Andrew and his mask of brazen behavior.
Pebbles. Rocks. Boulders. Piling up and filling the chambers of her heart, a quarry of blood. The brain processes the pain and the heartache is relayed through those stories. Fables of guys that I'll never meet. Their actions. Her tears of salt. Cause and effect.
In that cafe, Sarah was a strange record on a turntable, spinning and broadcasting sounds, and I was the captivated audience of one.
And I was delaying the inevitable.
Although that was the first real conversation I had had in quite some time, I didn't forget how they worked. Give and take. Give and take. And I would have to reveal, give pieces of my identity. Share. A mutual interaction where ugly parts are reluctantly revealed.
She had revealed and then there was silence.
"So...What's your story, morning glory?"
With a shy grin I chuckled and looked away, outside to the dark motorway but all I could see was my reflection in the window.
"Well..."
I shared secrets. The secrets of pain. The secrets of regret. The secrets that you're suppose to keep, but I broke the lock and sent those bloody details pouring across the table. All over the place. And all over Sarah. Sarah The Stranger.
And to this day I can't explain how I was able to drain myself of those confessions, drain them and give them to her. A girl that I had known but for a few hours. A stranger. A Beautiful Stranger. She felt like home. Like blankets for cold bones. Like ointment for chapped wounds. And a platonic ooze crept through the cracks of our conversation, coating the brief moments of silence. Like sugary maple syrup on hot cakes. Like milky white cream swirling in black coffee.
The things that I told her, those details aren't important because this story isn't about me. This story is about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah.
And on that night, in that cafe, during that conversation, the pinnacle of our friendship had been reached. Looking back, there was a birth and a death that night. Two simultaneous sparks. Fading in. Fading out. I was simply delaying the inevitable.
On subsequent nights we would meet for coffee. I'd go to her apartment or she would come to mine. Then we started sleeping together but nothing sexual happened -- really. We both missed sharing a bed, sleeping next to tender bones and tingling flesh, warmth. Our bodies wrapped in bed clothes of cotton, clean and pure. Then we started kissing and that was the extent of our intimate contact. We both missed the taste of another's soul. The taste of another's saliva infused with something sacred and bare and naked and mysterious, like embers shooting into the heavens, leaving the fire behind.
Then things started falling apart. I guess things had been breaking down for quite some time but now it was impossible to ignore. She stopped spending the night. Stopped coming over. Meeting at the cafe for coffee was a rare occurrence. Ugly frayed wires were exposed and smoldering. Fluids were leaking, steaming.
Delaying the inevitable is an art.
And I had mastered the craft.

Coughing pipes and falling rain and Beautiful Sarah says, "Here. Kill the headlights and park it here. And no, you can't come in. Look, we both know what's going on, or not going on. You obviously want something more from me, something that I can't provide for you right now. I mean, I thought we had made it clear what this was about.
"I'm sorry, okay? I guess I should have done a better job recognizing your vulnerabilities or something, I don't know. Maybe I should have noticed that things were slowing changing. I, I don't know."
Give and take. Give and take. And then silence. My turn to speak but what I said isn't important because this story isn't about me. It's about her. Sarah. Beautiful Sarah. And Sarah The Stranger.
I remember something she said on the night we met, at the party. Leaving the chaos she said she felt like she had survived a plane crash, a mess of human bodies, sweating, yelling.
I now realize that on that night, both of us were survivors. We were each other's safety device for that one night, and I guess after you survive a crash, where else can you go? What else is there?
She exits my car and enters the pouring rain and I'm left trapped in my vehicle, the man behind the wheel, lost without a safety device, sinking on this flooded street, a watery grave. She slowly approaches her doorstep and never looks back and I'll hang onto this moment for as long as I can, delaying the inevitable and living in suspended animation.

mc