Getaway
Greg wasn’t crazy about the idea, but he understood why she needed to return there again. Ever since her first husband disappeared from a cruise ship and was presumed dead five years before, she insisted on visiting the last place she went with him each year. Greg allowed her permission to grieve however she saw fit, but for the past four years, he stayed home while she flew out east to remember her first love.
This time, however, he offered to tag along. "I could use a change of scenery myself," he told her. "I’ll crash at the hotel and work while you’re out. And I’ll be there for you if you need me."
What he didn’t tell her was that he was tired of playing second banana to a dead man every summer.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The ocean water was warm, not offering much relief from the relentless heat. It was July 23rd, an anniversary she always honored by returning to the spot where her life had changed so dramatically. She stepped on something hard and reached down. She froze when she realized what she held in her hands.
Kimberly had never held a gun before. She and Chris had always laughed at the NRA wackos on the evening news, brandishing their phallic overcompensations and refusing to relinquish them until their hands were cold and lifeless.
That is not to say, however, that she never thought about holding a gun. After Greg left, she spent countless lonely, tearful nights wondering whether life without her love was a life at all, and during her lowest moments, the thought of suicide seemed a sufficient remedy to her pain. But then Greg from the art department came along, and she liked him enough to accept the dinner invitation he offered as they left work one afternoon. She came to accept that her love for Greg paled in comparison to her feelings for Chris, but Greg was sufficiently smart and attractive and good enough in bed -- barely -- that she accepted his proposal a year later. But even a dozen years after Greg’s death, sometimes she sat alone in front of her bathroom mirror and could not stop the tears.
Kimberly walked to a nearby group of lifeguards, shouting as she approached. “I found something in the water!”
“What is it?” replied a tall, slender kid who appeared half her age.
I think it’s a sign, she thought.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The bar in the hotel lobby was full this evening – full of people and full of noise. The locals gathered at the bar to watch a baseball game, taking moments between beers to applaud great plays, complain about overpaid players, and reminisce about the good old days. Leathery-skinned men roamed the room in search of their scantily-clad prey, who gathered in herds and sat in three of the four corner booths. In the fourth, however, sat a single person, a woman who ignored the cacophony of voices around her and scribbled in a notebook:
Hi sweetie. I’m sorry, but I guess my happiness died when Chris did. I love you, but being without him is too painful to continue. I’m sorry for hurting you, but I know that you’re strong enough to have a great life without me. I hope you do, anyway. Take care, Greg.
A few minutes (and beers) later, she left the bar and found her way to the front desk. “Excuse me, sir, but something has come up, and I’ll need to cut my visit short. Could you please make sure that this message gets to the gentleman in room 725?”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chris began to type but thought better of it. She won’t believe it’s true unless she sees my handwriting, he figured. This was not the first time he tried to write. He tried at least once every year, but he could never decide what to tell her. This time would be different, though, he told himself. So he sat and refused to rise until his task was complete – that is, until he realized that two and a half hours had passed and that he had only scribbled a single paragraph on the page in front of him:
Hi sweetie. I’m alive, but you’ll never see me again. I love you, but being with you was killing me, so I had to leave so I could have the life that I want. I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you, but if I know you, you’ve probably found more happiness with some other guy in five years than I would have given you in a lifetime. I hope you have, anyway. Take care, Kim.
Unable to write any more, he sealed the letter and crawled into bed. The next morning, he would take the letter to his job at the post office, where everyone knew him as Scott. From there, he would postmark the letter from a location in another state, and mail it to his widow.
Greg wasn’t crazy about the idea, but he understood why she needed to return there again. Ever since her first husband disappeared from a cruise ship and was presumed dead five years before, she insisted on visiting the last place she went with him each year. Greg allowed her permission to grieve however she saw fit, but for the past four years, he stayed home while she flew out east to remember her first love.
This time, however, he offered to tag along. "I could use a change of scenery myself," he told her. "I’ll crash at the hotel and work while you’re out. And I’ll be there for you if you need me."
What he didn’t tell her was that he was tired of playing second banana to a dead man every summer.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The ocean water was warm, not offering much relief from the relentless heat. It was July 23rd, an anniversary she always honored by returning to the spot where her life had changed so dramatically. She stepped on something hard and reached down. She froze when she realized what she held in her hands.
Kimberly had never held a gun before. She and Chris had always laughed at the NRA wackos on the evening news, brandishing their phallic overcompensations and refusing to relinquish them until their hands were cold and lifeless.
That is not to say, however, that she never thought about holding a gun. After Greg left, she spent countless lonely, tearful nights wondering whether life without her love was a life at all, and during her lowest moments, the thought of suicide seemed a sufficient remedy to her pain. But then Greg from the art department came along, and she liked him enough to accept the dinner invitation he offered as they left work one afternoon. She came to accept that her love for Greg paled in comparison to her feelings for Chris, but Greg was sufficiently smart and attractive and good enough in bed -- barely -- that she accepted his proposal a year later. But even a dozen years after Greg’s death, sometimes she sat alone in front of her bathroom mirror and could not stop the tears.
Kimberly walked to a nearby group of lifeguards, shouting as she approached. “I found something in the water!”
“What is it?” replied a tall, slender kid who appeared half her age.
I think it’s a sign, she thought.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The bar in the hotel lobby was full this evening – full of people and full of noise. The locals gathered at the bar to watch a baseball game, taking moments between beers to applaud great plays, complain about overpaid players, and reminisce about the good old days. Leathery-skinned men roamed the room in search of their scantily-clad prey, who gathered in herds and sat in three of the four corner booths. In the fourth, however, sat a single person, a woman who ignored the cacophony of voices around her and scribbled in a notebook:
Hi sweetie. I’m sorry, but I guess my happiness died when Chris did. I love you, but being without him is too painful to continue. I’m sorry for hurting you, but I know that you’re strong enough to have a great life without me. I hope you do, anyway. Take care, Greg.
A few minutes (and beers) later, she left the bar and found her way to the front desk. “Excuse me, sir, but something has come up, and I’ll need to cut my visit short. Could you please make sure that this message gets to the gentleman in room 725?”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Chris began to type but thought better of it. She won’t believe it’s true unless she sees my handwriting, he figured. This was not the first time he tried to write. He tried at least once every year, but he could never decide what to tell her. This time would be different, though, he told himself. So he sat and refused to rise until his task was complete – that is, until he realized that two and a half hours had passed and that he had only scribbled a single paragraph on the page in front of him:
Hi sweetie. I’m alive, but you’ll never see me again. I love you, but being with you was killing me, so I had to leave so I could have the life that I want. I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you, but if I know you, you’ve probably found more happiness with some other guy in five years than I would have given you in a lifetime. I hope you have, anyway. Take care, Kim.
Unable to write any more, he sealed the letter and crawled into bed. The next morning, he would take the letter to his job at the post office, where everyone knew him as Scott. From there, he would postmark the letter from a location in another state, and mail it to his widow.
