Sitting down to Sunday brunch is a tradition I’ve always enjoyed, even when I’m by myself. There’s something so special about that dedicated time to luxuriate in extravagant food, people watch, and enjoy the bubbling atmosphere of my fellow brunchers. This morning I’m trying a new restaurant my coworker gave a raving review. Bright sunlight pours through the wall of windows, putting the bustle and drama of the city on display for the diners. The round tables are covered with crisp white tablecloths, surrounded by light wood chairs, and on each table sits pale pink linen napkins, glassware and cutlery, a pitcher of lemon cucumber water, and a vase containing a vibrant yellow marigold.
Marigolds.
Suddenly, I’m transported back in time to a field of marigolds and the most perfect day. We had packed a picnic and driven out to the countryside, setting up beneath a tree surrounded by marigolds, the sky perfectly blue, with fluffy white clouds. We had nibbled at our food for hours, laying back and pointing out the shapes in the clouds. I had read with your head resting in my lap, and we had cuddled into each other while we watched the sun set, enjoying the peace that simply being together brought. We told jokes and laughed so much my abs hurt the entire next day, but also discussed our hopes and dreams for the future, the constant in both being that we would be together, happier than ever. At the time, I really believed we would be. That we were forever.
We had such an amazing life, it was effervescent. Full of animated conversations, dancing on sidewalks, debating the qualities and faults of movies and music. We could be across the room from each other and our gazes would always find their way back to the other, two stars orbiting our entire lives around each other. We were so wrapped up in the rush we got from being together that we didn’t notice the cracks. The cracks showing our fundamental differences, which we would never be able to compromise. The cracks that crumbled into great ravines when we both focused too much on our careers instead of our relationship. The glow of our burning stars seeped slowly through and then all at once, until we were both left in the dark.
I had never felt real heartbreak until then, when we finally called it quits after years of true, wild, energetically happy love. With my heart ripped out, I bawled my eyes out, drunk on the bathroom floor, grieving for our future that would never be. I cried until I fell asleep, but woke in the middle of the night to him carrying me to the bed and spooning his body around mine one last time, knowing it would calm my aching heart. In spite of everything, we still loved each other, we just couldn’t make it work.
When I think about our relationship I tend to only remember the good times, the times that make me long for one more day with him. But then I force myself to step back and remember all the reasons we broke up. It wasn’t sunshine and fireworks all the time, those are just the memories that made the most lasting impression. There’s nothing wrong with remembering times of joy, so long as I hold on to the acceptance that we are both better off. Because really, we both have so many options available to us in our futures, but a future together isn’t one.
“Ma’am? Are you ready to order?” the waiter questions tentatively.
I snap back to the present, realizing my mind has been so wrapped up in the past, I haven’t even glanced at the menu. Quickly scanning my eyes over the menu, a small smile creeps on to my lips as I order our favorite and begin to reminisce once again.
About the Creator
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
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