As I ran through the bustling subway steps, I remember seeing her. She stood facing the train as she awaited the vehicle to take her as far away from this over crowded, pollution filled, hell hole she hated so terribly. As I watched I thought of running towards her. I had it all mapped out in my mind. I would run full speed ahead and sweep her up into my arms as I engulfed her in an utterly beautiful and romanticized kiss. The perfect romantic comedy. But I didn’t. I stared. And waited for the getaway vehicle that would take her away from this city, and away from me. I could shout to her, I thought. At least let her know that I had come with the idea of sweeping her off her feet in an awestruck moment of undying love. I would tell her how I would go anywhere, and do anything if I could keep her, and how I would spend every waking moment making her happy beyond measure.
But I didn’t do that.
I did yell to her, though. She looked back, not quite noticing me yet. I thought quickly. Should I hide? She hasn’t seen me yet, and maybe she didn’t want to see me.
This morning she surely didn’t. I remember waking up to the sound of broken glass and venting. She shouted angrily at nothing in particular. She filled her bag with the forks and knives we had to save up for and the small plates that cost an entire paycheck. Things hadn’t been easy. We moved to the city from a small town that had a population of about 12,000. I remember looking at that number when I looked through the census and thinking that seemed much bigger than the small city actually was. We moved to the city with dreams. We thought it would be just like that Tracy Chapman song minus the sad ending, and we would eventually build a life from undying love. But it wasn’t.
At least not yet anyway.
I found a minimum wage job at Target, working the cash register, and she became a waitress at a small cafe in the middle of town. It was a pretty place, and the people that owned it were nice enough, they just couldn’t pay much. No one could. Recently things have become really tight, and the stress has been getting at both of us. She hopes for a better life, but doesn’t feel like we ever get there. And I hope for a life with her, but she doesn’t to want to get there, either.
Anyway, more dishes slammed as she pushed them into the old rundown travel bag her parents had bought her during her college graduation. As she walked away from the kitchen she started to grab more things on the way. Her CD’s, Ipod, and guitar all stayed close with her as she slammed the old French door we bought at a small second hand furniture store. This wasn’t the first time she tried to pack up and leave, but last time it ended more favorably. I did let her go last time, but she only left for a few days before she realized she missed me.
Doesn’t seem like she misses me this time.
She decides she must have been hearing things and begins to look forward. I watch her quietly from the small cement sidewalk. She sets down her guitar case as she puts in her ear buds. She could be lost in the music for hours. A guy around twenty comes beside her, saying something inaudible from this distance. She smiles at him with those full red lips and white as snow teeth. They start up a conversation, and the longer they talk the more my chest starts to burn.
Fire creeps into my veins as this man tries to take this girl.
My Girl.
I start to boil as I watch them flirt and tease each other. Finally the first train comes, and the man hops on it. She follows him, taking the first ticket out of her. Far away from this city.
And far away from me.
I run towards her, but not because of some cheesy sixties romance fantasy, because I love her. The doors start to shut as I make it to the platform. As I run to them, the train lurches forward. As it moves past, all I catch is a glimpse of red hair ducked down into an Ipod.As the train moves away, so does she.
I start to walk back, only to find a black, worn guitar case at my feet.
As I pick it up, I see a small piece of note paper sticking out. On top there is a heart, colored like the ying yang symbol. How she always makes them. Inside, the letter explains how much she loves me, but how she needs to leave. As I keep reading, I see tears start to blot the cheap paper.
Her favorite song ends the letter.
‘Hey Jude,
Don’t make it bad.
Take a sad song,
and make it better.’
A small black line highlights the last two lines.