Saturday, October 6, 2007

You're going to get hit - Slipping in the back

She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.

Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted no thing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. She wasn't there as she was arranging things for the upcoming wedding. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried in the back for her young Werther.

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