Here is a short story I wrote in college. When I was your teacher, I didn't let you see this creative side of me, but language and writing are really my passions. So, I thought I'd let you in on my world. The purpose behind the topics I choose to write about centrally revolve around the idea that without God, people's lives are filled with chaos. Though some of my stories do not have a "Christian" theme, I hope I represent how lost we are without Him.
Deipnophobia- A fear of dinner conversations
There were Gerber daisies in a jar on the table that morning. The huge blooms of orange and crimson red watered down the rest of the colors in the small kitchen of our first floor apartment. Those flowers were used in Jeff and Sarah’s wedding the day before, and at four o’clock the next morning their brightness was an offense to my eyes. I pulled my suitcase to the front door, and the old familiar squeak of its wheels made me halt for silence. The slick interior of my leather jacket, I had pulled it on over the pajama tank top I had not thought to change out of, felt colder on my bare shoulders in that moment. Slowly, I turned to place a small box next to those daisies when Kyle stumbled into the glow of fluorescent lights.
* * *
Eight weeks before the wedding, nearly in love, we had thought that moving in together was the best idea. Kyle’s apartment was two blocks from the campus where I taught voice, and we practically lived in each other’s places anyway. Kyle and I decided to just live like roommates—split the rent, groceries, electric bill. I ordered cable to be installed, so I paid for that. It was simple, and perfect. At first. In the beginning, we started out being super-polite to one another. He always put the lid down on the toilet, and I made the bed every morning. Kyle and I were constantly fawning over each other, and we cooked a meal together at least once a day. Two weeks after I moved in everything changed.
We had dinner with some friends of Kyle’s from the office; they all were programmers. Of course, I had nothing in common with them. I started to zone out as the appetizers were being served. Kyle had ordered me the spinach artichoke dip, even though he abhorred it. I was in the middle of my second dip when out of Kyle’s mouth spewed, “It’s almost as good as being married.” My mind boiled over. I had never been married, never wanted to be married, and had no intension of ever getting married. Living together was safer, better. How could he even suggest an alternative? I began to picture Kyle, twenty years from now: his gorgeous black hair thinning, his splendid gray eyes dim with complacency. Marriage was comfortable, convenient. After bills, mortgages and kids all the love and excitement dissipates. Didn’t he see that? I know that I saw it every holiday: Christmas with Mom and Jack, or Thanksgiving with Dad and Allison. No, I would never be like them. Least to say, after Kyle’s remark I didn’t remember the rest of the meal.
In the six weeks following the restaurant ordeal Kyle became more and more obvious in his intentions. The subtle hints dribbled out of his lovely mouth consistently as he continued to talk of married life. Each purposeful phrase bit at the back of my mind, and began to fill the air around me. Around the time the leaves were beginning to change in early October we went to the mall, and he tried to persuade me into a jewelry store to “just have some fun.”
“Come on,” he urged, “it’ll be fun, aren’t diamonds a girl’s best, um… pal, or something like that?”
“Best friend, babe, best FRIEND. Anyway, I don’t base my identity on stupid clichés,” laughing, I tried to pull him away from the rows of glass display cases.
“Whatever, you’re the one who dragged me here to go SHOE shopping,” he sneered and pulled my arm back in the direction of the shining stones.
“That’s different; I needed shoes for the wedding.” He then raised his eyebrows at that comment, and tugged my arm suggestively. “Kyle, no. Look, I just don’t want to go.” I yanked my hand away from his grip, and walked down the mall corridor. The rest of the day was ruined while I tried to play happy, and Kyle gave me the cold shoulder.
Further and further my mind recessed at Kyle’s persuasions. I battled constantly between my love and devotion to him, and the resistance to his new personality changes. The politeness we experienced when first living together began to sag on Kyle’s part in the third week of our living arrangement. My first class starts at 8:30 a.m., while Kyle doesn’t have to get to the office until nine. So, I always get up at seven and let him sleep. My alarm is set for 6:40; the coffee pot in the kitchen is set for 7:10. This way, I can press the snooze at least twice, the coffee is ready for me when I step out of the shower, and I can drag myself to my closet-of-an-office by eight to prepare any material for the day. One particular morning after the alarm buzzed for the second time Kyle poked his head out of the mound of quilts and blankets on his side of the bed, and practically yelled, “Can’t you get up when it goes off the first time? I’m trying to sleep!”
“Well… why don’t you just put every blanket we own on your head so you can’t hear me?” I stormed out of the bed after my lame comeback. That morning I was exceptionally hard on the poor soprano that took up my first half hour block.
A week later my dad called the apartment to invite us over for a mid-October barbeque. Hastily, before discussing the situation with me, Kyle accepted the invitation. Of course, it was the beginning of senior recitals, and three of my students had theirs scheduled that same week.
“But you certainly have time for one barbeque,” Kyle plainly spoke. I did not. However, one practice was cancelled and another was moved to the next morning at seven, and my dad was appeased.
The evening went well enough, though forced inside by the unexpected, bitterly cold wind. Allison was personified by that wind, but that was nothing unusual. She scurried around the recently remodeled kitchen with practiced grace while my dad spouted off small talk for an hour before retreating to the state-of-the-art entertainment center to watch some sort of sport. I had absolutely no interest in it, but that did not stop Kyle from following in line after the bid golden retriever Allison bought Dad two years ago. That left me staring blankly into the over polished face of my stepmother as she chattered on about the wealth and happiness she married into.
“I could never imagine living any way than the way I do right now,” she whined. “Your daddy has been so good to me. Look at my new kitchen, isn’t it wonderful? And to think, just eight years ago I was just one of his paralegals, and he lived in that shabby thing on the old side of town.”
I sneered silently, adding nods and grunts at appropriate intervals to appear as if I were listening. All the while, I knew that this fake woman was living off my real mom’s sweat that earned Dad’s way through law school.
“Oh, Rachel. Don’t look so glum when I am so magnanimously happy!” I don’t think that she really knew what “magnanimously” meant. We left at 10 o’clock that night, and Kyle proclaimed that the evening was a great success.
The suffocation kept billowing in when last Tuesday night I was watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I was all intent with my popcorn and Diet Dr. Pepper. Now, I am usually a person that doesn’t mind snuggling up to someone, especially Kyle, while watching a video. I rather enjoy his warm body as a pillow, and his fingers stroking my shoulder length auburn hair. However, this is not the case with Indiana Jones. All of my family and friends know that I must sit cross-legged on the floor, five feet from the TV, in order to be thoroughly engrossed. Personally, I believe whole-heartedly that this is the only way any sane person can watch this great trilogy. And yes, Kyle knows this as well. Yet, in the middle of the part where Indiana punches out the Nazi on the blimp, Kyle decides it is an appropriate time to get all mushy in my face. I swear that when his head got in the way of the TV, and his hands starting roaming, I nearly slugged him. It was just a little too much.
We still cook at least one meal together a day, but the atmosphere seems distant and cold. I retreat to the music room in the evening, playing my keyboard for hours to relieve the stress that has been building. Sometimes, Kyle comes in to talk. I caught him two days ago standing in the doorway. His face, with its pale tone and splash of freckles on the bridge of his nose, was washed over with a sad awe. I could not completely make out his eyes due to the Cowboys ball cap pulled down over his black curls.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve been practicing this piece for the winter faculty recital.”
“No,” he protested. “You are beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
The morning after Jeff and Sarah’s wedding, Kyle stared at the box I was setting down, and said, “What are you doing?” He looked at the box and not at me.
“I’ve got to go,” I set the small velvet box on the cold table. “I’m not ready for this.”
“Rachel,” he yawned halfway through my name, and it came out sounding like Ray-el, “don’t leave.” He never covers his mouth when he yawns.
“What else is there for me to do? Why should I stay if I don’t want this life?” My sentences were slow and deliberate. I remember how hard it was for me to formulate each syllable. For the last four weeks I had been gathering together the strength to say them, and I just wanted to be done with it all.
Rubbing his eyes, he finally looked up to meet my gaze. I couldn’t hold it. Kyle was always able to tear down my walls. “Please. If you’re not ready, it’s okay. I just want to be with you,” Kyle’s gray eyes brimmed with tears. He had been so sweet the day before. At Jeff and Sarah’s wedding he had been the best man, and I was the maid of honor. He was ecstatic when we walked down the isle together, was very complimentary of my forest green gown, and beamed when he caught the garter at the reception. Then, in the middle of his toast at the reception he stood up on the table. In the midst of gasping relatives, Kyle proposed, handing me that little velvet box. Of course I had to say yes, he bullied me into it. Hours later he reached out for me as I edged toward the door, “Tell me what I have to do to change your mind.”
I looked back to the doorknob, that shiny gold portal of deliverance from this mess. If I could only turn the knob, even touch its cold metallic handle. I needed out. “Kyle, you don’t understand. You can’t do anything.”
I reached down for the handle of my suitcase. One step closer to the door. The air seemed to close in around me. The entry way to the apartment was shrinking while Kyle’s pleading eyes filled all my senses. I wanted the cool November air on my face. I needed the drizzling rain to coat my hair. The doorknob was inches from my grasp. Gathering my strength, I took one last glance into those beautiful gray eyes, “Goodbye Kyle, I’ll get the rest of my stuff in a couple of weeks.”
Turning back around, with suitcase in hand, I reached for the doorknob. A faint reflection of orange and crimson red gleamed on the gold surface just before my hand wrapped around its handle. With one deep breath I took the seemingly liberating step out of the Kyle-saturated air. Two steps later rain hit my face.
This is our new house in Montana. See the for rent sign? Yeah, that ain't there no more!
Crazy hair during a Missouri summer.
You turn your back for one second, and you end up with a princess running around.
You remember Clint. This is in Cody, Wyoming at the Buffalo Bill Cody Museum. Yes, even while on vacation I try to learn something.
