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Eric's blog: "Pen, Broken"

created on 12/30/2007  |  http://fubar.com/pen-broken/b173086

Pen, Broken

Pen, Broken (Written 1998) Beside the shirt, lying on the beige carpet of the bedroom, lay her pen, broken. I sat quietly and stared at it in something of a daze, reading the inscription, vaguely, repeatedly, hoping to find some small consolation in it. I had thought of the details of her journey, details she had described in the darkest witching hour of night, lying in my arms, talking as the warm night air had embraced us as much as we did each other. I imagined where she was at that moment, what she might be feeling, if anything. Would she cry? Small consolation if she did, and a smaller likelihood still. I could not imagine a woman with the least shred of compassion so coolly stripping me of the chance to say good-bye. Now I was sitting here as the minutes fell away to hours, staring at her pen. Such a meager offering on the altar of Passions Denied. A shirt, mine, but she had worn it that last night when her clothes accidentally became soaked because of a neglected shower curtain. She had come out of the bathroom, wet and beautiful, like a water nymph fresh from her native element, with a smile that betrayed both humor and frustration. I laughed and gave her clothes to wear. Now the shirt lay pitifully on the floor next to the pen, in a formless lump, looking much like I felt. The same glorious creature that had given it shape and purpose now left it by contrast so empty and unexceptional, not unlike how I felt. Next to it lay the pen that she had used to scribble down my address and phone number, left behind in her haste. Now it lay dully by the shirt, forming the only physical evidence she had ever been in my life. Nothing else; no picture, no note, nothing. Most disturbing to me was the possibility that to her, the relationship may not have been much more than the sum of those parts. I may have served the purpose of adorning her spirit with affection, represented by the garment that had adorned her flesh. I may have also given her an outlet that allowed for unbridled, albeit brief, affection, like the pen she used to write down my address and phone number. With that act, the vague impression that she may wish to continue our relationship. It was a useless thought that she would, and I knew it. The cold reality of it did not matter to me yet. The thought at present was metamorphosed into something beautiful and powerful. Self-aware, self-indulgent and self-gratifying. Yet for as self-centered as it seems, it was a beacon around which I fluttered; a lighthouse to my dark and struggling soul.
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