Never Made It (beyond words)

We never made it to Vancouver like you promised. Yes, Tiffany’s in New York, Mallorca, Barcelona, all happened as you said they would. And in Montreal, I understood that our paths, though parallel at the moment, would not continue beyond the approaching summer. Marriage was no longer a topic of interest. The honeymoon, booked nine months ahead, was going to go forward as planned. Irregardless. (I know, I hate it too, but it’s in the dictionary now, so…)

From Montreal, we imagined our journey together. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life,” being the driving mantra you planted in my soul four months into our blurry beginning. There was drinking. I was counseled on “harm reduction” rather than my gut response, “get the fuck out.” You were like a winged angel swooping in at the beginning, planned, scripted, and executed, you snared me in a web of innuendo and intrigue. I spent that first day in our amazing hotel suite with a tub big enough to be called an in-room spa. I wrote and wrote and imagined your return from “work.”

Even as we shot laser pointers into the night sky of our maps, our future dreams held divergent goals. Hers to travel. Mine to create. At the time, unlike now (thank you very much), I had very little momentum or money. She was the one with the earned bank account and the evil stepbrother. An epiphany happened a few weeks later after a 15-mile bike ride together and margaritas. “If I have to pay for both of us, I can’t go on as many trips.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

Or, you could go alone.

Turns out she found a “really nice guy” a year or so later. A bass player and photographer. Pretty sure he didn’t have money in the bank, but hey… Maybe she understood that traveling alone was fun, but that happiness is better as a shared experience.

Read more Short-Short Stories from John.