A lil' Fiction (this is dedicated to you GypsiJ)

This isn’t love, its friendship. I try telling myself these words as I watch him fixing the leg of my coffee table; a household job I imagined an exclusive lover or husband would fulfill. I hand him the wrench, watch the beads of perspiration moisten his upper lip, and I love him. I love him in this moment the same way I loved him the moment he read my poems and told me I was “talented”. Best friends. We’ve been fest friends for nearly fifteen years and I know his every fault, can’t stand the way he longs after love, while I stand right in front of him.

My new home is delightful. I managed to save enough money and to find the courage to move alone. Being 35 and single sort of makes you grow up. When I saw this house, I didn’t think: I’ll raise my children here. I thought: “this is going to be a nice place for a single gal”. Go figure, me, exquisite me, single. The crown molding in the living room and the exposed brick in the kitchen made love to my eyes when I walked into this home for the first time. I could see myself filling up the mantel on the fireplace with pictures of my family and maybe finally getting that golden retriever I always wanted. He would be my friend.


I got this coffee table from the estate sale in the ridiculously exclusive estate sub-division down the road. Some painter and his artist wife were divorcing and so their life of excess and glamour had now become my premiere Saturday Yard Sale find. It’s heavy oak, my new coffee table. I might have not gotten it for the overpriced $50 I paid for it if it didn’t have that map of the world engraved on the top. When I saw it, I figured that when I have visitors they could come over and take trips with me. Whatever country they sat their glass on becomes our destination. I always ask the same question: “Looks like you just got to Honduras, what is it like down there?” Puzzled my guests always ask me what the hell I’m talking about. Then I draw their attention to the table. I show them that they are sitting in front of the world. They now, have the power to go anywhere they want. It makes for great conversation; although inevitably the conversation turns into what they need to do in order to live a more authentic life. They began, through using me as the sound board, to ask themselves questions like: “Am I doing everything with my life that I’m supposed to be doing?” I never answer their questions; I always assume they are rhetorical. Besides, I haven’t answered that question for myself yet, so I surely can’t answer it for them.


Then there was the night of the singles party that I allowed you to convince me to throw at my house. You were sure that I might just find my “soul mate” if I just lent my home to your business. I knew my soul mate wouldn’t be there, at least I wouldn’t find him there; I have already found him. But to appease you and to meet some new people I agreed to throw the party. We had a fabulous time that night didn’t we? Isn’t that when you met that girl that you just knew had the key to your heart? I think her name was Jess. Yeah, you kept saying Jess the whole week after that. I got tired of her name around Thursday and was happy she was out of the picture by Saturday. Why I keep letting myself get drowned in sorrow every time you find another soul mate, I don’t know. I should know after fifteen years of friendship that you only love the idea of love, but never its representatives.


When they decided to do the electric slide at three in the morning I knew people were going to get wild. We started drinking about what? Seven? So clearly there was going to be some foolishness. But I was just as drunk. I had just bought my table two weeks before when we were out that morning for our daily jog. You tried to tell me it was matronly, but I forced you to see how it could be an incredible “conversation piece” and so you agreed it would be a great piece for my living room; resigning that I “didn’t have a coffee table anyway, and it’ll do the job”. I often wonder whether or not you are able to see the beauty in things even when the beauty doesn’t shine directly in your face.


I knew the guy who broke the leg of my table was a jerk when he walked in the door. He had that hungry look in his eyes. He seemed like one of those creeps that preys on women for “flings” but has absolutely no interest in getting seriously involved. I secretly watched him all night. I wanted to make sure he didn’t spend too much time “assessing” my home; he seemed like a thief, although it was clear what he wanted wasn’t hanging on the walls…it was between some unlucky girls legs. I heard the crash from inside the kitchen while I was brushing up against that mechanical engineer with the corky glasses on. I knew everyone was getting ready for the electric slide but I was sure I was going to get a revenge fuck out of this night since you had just met Jess, the love of your life. I figured if you could fall in love in seconds so could I. Then, in the midst of me batting cow eyes at the engineer I heard the crash. I love the way you jumped up from the couch and sprung into action. I felt like you were protecting me. The look of horror on your face was indescribable when you realized he had broken my newest favorite conversation piece. Maybe I was too drunk to be mad; I faked devastation though, I wanted your concern to linger, perhaps even distract you from Jess.


Your voice got all baritone, even though you’re more like a tenor, and you announced: “Okay everybody, party’s over, thanks for coming out!” My engineer put his glass of grey goose on the counter, slipped me his card and walked through the kitchen towards the front door. Your Jess just sat patiently on the couch refreshing her lip gloss. While you herded people out of my house, I couldn’t help imagining that this was our house, our party, our associates, our life. But just then, stupid “Jess” came to console me: “He’ll get them out of here girl, he knows how to handle people”. I remember how intense the desire to smack her was. She was telling me, your friend of fifteen years how you would handle this situation, because of course, she was an expert on you after a couple of hours of kissing and one too many margaritas. I’m always surprised by the women you choose.


In some small way, you’re my hero right now. I know you feel totally responsible for my favorite table being broken and so that is why you are here, fixing it. I know you also feel like if you don’t do it, it may cost me a pretty penny. I would have to get it professionally taken care of, and since its recent appraisal for $25,000 me having to pay to have it fixed is out of the question.


“Okay, we’re gonna have to keep this clamp on this edge of the table so that the wood glue sets correctly, I’m going to go wash my hands. You got anything to eat?” you say wiping the small beads of sweat from your upper lip.
I walk towards the kitchen. I’ll make you a hummus and cucumber sandwich on wheat bread, I know it’s your favorite.


Readers Challenge: What should happen next? What's going on with these two? Is this a relationship that you would like to see flourish/why or why not? Let's write the rest together!!! - ms.b