This Modern Love
Page 17
Who were the new people he was with? What were their stories, their histories? So many people with so many perspectives. Usually it’s easy to ignore. They’re only background, they don’t matter. However, after the MDMA experience—even with the harsh comedown—she was feeling oddly empathic. These people seemingly came out of nowhere. Somehow their worlds overlapped with her world by way of one lost love. It was too much.
The world can get very overwhelming, if you overthink it.
Carla stood up nonchalantly, and attempted to overcome the feeling of dizziness and find her breath again. She stood up straight, like a tree, imagining in yogic fashion that her toes were deep roots. Her hands went into the prayer position, and she breathed slowly. A whiff of eggs and oil came into her sense of smell.
The group across the road was gaining speed, and she considered her options. Should she follow? It had been a long night, and yet was there room for a new adventure? Most likely, they would soon get into somebody’s car and be gone. Still, any hints learned about the crowd and the new girl may be worth the trouble.
In the end, she decided against it. She threw away the water and walked in another direction. She didn’t turn around.
Timothy had his stories, Carla had hers, and they weren’t meant to overlap. He went his way, and for all she knew their paths might never cross again. She had no choice but to leave it alone and to be fine with that. Her heart chakra swelled in pain, so it felt, but she had to be fine.
It was time for new stories. There was enough possibility in the universe for all kinds of novelty she hadn’t even imagined yet. She need only lean forward and go.
I might meet someone new this very moment, she thought.
Immediately after, she chastised herself. Sigh, why did it always have to be about men? All kinds of amazing things could happen all over the world. She was as strong and independent a woman as they came. She didn’t need a man.
No, she thought, considering various sides of herself. But I want one. And why shouldn’t I get what I want? At this point I deserve it.
For the rest of the walk, as the flowering light of the new day gradually blossomed, she allowed herself to entertain fantasies without internal conflict. She embraced the notion.
The new guy didn’t have to be perfect, but he had to be different from those of the past. He would have common interests with her. He would do bad stuff sometimes, and he would regret it because deep down he’s good. She could help him with confidence. She’d build him up. They could build each other up. He would be a real guy.
Everything would change as soon as she’d finally meet him.
She even allowed herself a smile. It would be so nice the first time they made love, like awkward but in a cute way. She’d have someone to share experiences with, and feel safe, and everything would be okay.
Finally almost back to the coffee shop lot where she left her car, Carla concluded the fantasies. Now hungry, she wanted to buy breakfast. A donut perhaps. Even coffee. Morning was on the way.
Missiles of sunlight crept up from the horizon—obscured by buildings—one by one attacking her eyes, just as she took out the Grapephone. She turned it on, because she wanted to listen to Streamtunes. Something upbeat.
The intersection called to her. Buds in her ears, she turned it up all the way. The music brought with it life. She ignored the updates, the pinging, the flashing, and focused only on the music as the day crossed over into the next.
For a moment, she locked eyes with a gentlemen walking opposite. He also had earbuds. It was a nice feeling. Like they were both listening to the same comforting rhythm. Like they were walking in rhythm. Like they were part of the same world. He stepped closer. She thought about saying hello.
She thought about it.
Then, quite suddenly, a dog yipped.
Out of the corner of her eye, a car lost control.
It wasn’t real.
Curiously, the music was overlaying the scene, and it wasn’t real. There was no reaction. Only scenes. Images. Ghosts. Illusion.
The music was the only thing that matters.
In the end, nothing else felt real. Nothing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ray Hecht is an American author currently based in China. He has written for the Shenzhen Daily, theNanfang.com, and the Wall Street Journal. His latest published novel is South China Morning Blues (Blacksmith Books, 2015). He blogs at rayhecht.com.