Leaving

I was feeling blue. I decided to take a walk.

It was raining, but it was only a light drizzle, and I walked past all the shops in downtown and past the river. I went past the famous Spanish bar and peered inside, hearing the faint sound of boisterous laughter and I saw couples happily sitting together nursing their homemade spun concoctions and cocktails. They famously always had Matador bull fights on all the Flat screens they had in the bar. Old fights, new fights. Fights from years ago.

I didn’t care for the fights but I liked how intense people got into it. It made me feel alive to see how vibrant others got over their passions. My name is Elise and I’m feeling blue. How are you doing? I’m writing this because I’m lonely. I miss you.

I have a boyfriend who doesn’t love me. He insults me. He interrogates me over every little thing I do—-right or wrong. He hurts me all the time and then apologizes quickly—-expecting me to immediately smile again. I’m writing to you now because I’m watching bulls gore wildly dressed Matadors, and I am hearing clinking glasses. Celebrations and happy, jubilant exclamations of love and joy.

I’m eighteen years old and far away from my family. In a new country. I moved away with my boyfriend because I wanted to be free, yet I am more trapped—like a fluttering bird in a cage—- and yet it’s exhausting because I know exactly how to leave. I can leave anytime I want to, he tells me. I do. But then, I come back.

You might tell me (again) that I’m smarter than this. That I was built tougher. I was created stronger. That I wasn’t made to be someone else’s doormat.

You’re right.

I know.

That’s why I’m leaving tonight.

I’m awake now, and I’m leaving for good.

I have no illusions about love, it doesn’t really exist.

My whole heart and soul and body feels achy and painful and God, I can’t

Do

This.

How can I leave him?

What will I do?

No one wants me.

No one needs me.

I pray to God for strength.

I look up at the sky. It’s yellow and gray and white. There’s lingering thunder and lightning. Rain is sprinkling down like a broken sprinkler on a lawn.

Suddenly, a woman with kind golden eyes comes up to me. She smells like vanilla. It makes me want to linger near her forever.

“Darlin’, what’s wrong?” She doesn’t let me answer. She gives me a flower from a large bag.

It’s a marigold. “Here. This looks like you, beautiful.”

She hugs me. I hug her back.

And the tears flow so hard and fast, and I can’t stop it.

No words, she looks into my eyes, and everything is communicated.

“Do you want to come with me and run an errand?” She asked me. “My name is Marianne.”

“Sure. My name is Elise.” I wiped my tears. I took in a deep breath.

We walked side by side.

I smelled the marigold. It made me think of fall. It smelled of hay.

It was beautiful though, and it made me smile.

We went to the fruit stand near the river.

We got fresh pomegranate seeds, watermelon, bananas, mango, strawberries, tomatoes, blueberries, limes, mint, fresh honey, parsley, fresh pasta, shallots and garlic, with chives and a couple of other herbs.

Then, we stopped at the community center.

“Elise, I volunteer here every week and make my famous pasta and mint fruit salad. Wanna help me?”

I nod. Already, I start to feel more at home with her, than I have in the last six months with my boyfriend Eric.

I lived in New York, in the upper east side my whole life. Then as I turned eighteen, I met Eric. He wanted to travel the world. To go live in Spain, Africa, France.

To join the Peace Corps and learn new languages. He made me believe of a brand new chapter in my life full of love and adventure and peace.

Quickly, I saw that things would be different once we were alone in a new, foreign place with strangers.

He would berate me, insult me, insult my family and not let me talk to anyone unless he was there.

Now that he’s working, I have more time to breathe. I check my phone as she starts to prepare the homemade pasta sauce. He’s texted me several times. What was I doing? Who was I with? When will I be home? What was dinner going to be tonight?

“What you doing on your phone, baby? We got a lot of people to feed!” She teased me. I laughed and helped chop the basil.

“What’re you doing on your phone, Ellie?”

The wall of his soundscape hits my memory.

“How can someone be so useless?”

I frown and bit my lip, trying not to cry.

“You’re so stupid. How could you ever believe anyone that told you that you were smart?”

I put my hand over my eyes, and try to drown it out

STUPID annoying UGLYCUNT you worthless piece of shit get the FUCK outta here don’tleaveme I want you to go!

But I can’t stop hearing his voice. The blocks of noise that hit me like raw blocks of concrete to my face. To my heart. To my soul.

Suddenly, I am engulfed in an embrace. It’s Marianne.

“Elise, I don’t know what you’re going through, but if you need help, please let me help you.”

And I did.

I told her everything,

And I let go.

I told Eric I was done. I left him. For good. I gave him the marigold you gave me as a final goodbye, telling him that it meant despair and the season of fall to me, and that maybe to him, he could find a way to turn it into something good for himself. To change like the season’s inevitable turn of light and shadow. Of life and death.

But, It was so hard. But I did it.

I go back to the bar with famous bull fights on the TV’s.

It isn’t raining outside.

One of the fights, I see a Matador win.

I’m awake now, and I’m holding your hand.

I kiss your cheek. You kiss my lips. You taste like coffee and our morning love. I savor it, licking my bottom lip with a sly smile.

We go inside the bar and laugh and drink and talk about our endeavors to help the poor.

I’m writing my story on a whim now because you saved me, Marianne. You and I fell in love and you saved me.

You saved me from myself.

Now that you passed away after so many joyful years together, I go back to that bar, and watch the Matadors fight that strange and frightful red tinted dance.

And I drink to you at the bar, and then go back to the community center and make your famous pasta—-but never as good as you made it.