Do you want anything at Barnes and Noble? I texted her. I think I’m gonna go on my lunch break.
We haven’t dated in months, she texted back. Lose my number.
I figured I’d still get her a good book anyway. There’s a ton at the store.
I found some bestsellers on the front table. They had orange and blue on the cover, so I guess that made them popular. I took them to the counter.
Do you know anything about these? I asked the employee.
Sir, the mask must go over your nose, she said.
Well, she wasn’t wrong. The elastic is losing its formidability. I guess we all are.
On the way back to work, I noticed a terrific car wreck. Who knew plastic could wind up in such shapes? I pulled up behind it, noticed a young girl crying in the grass, trauma flowing in and around her. I have had trauma. We all do, it’s so modern and vibrant.
Are you ok? I asked.
My fucking car is wrecked, she said.
Let’s not be so sure, I said. I walked up to her. I debated waiting until the cops or something showed up, but lunch breaks don’t last forever.
Would you like a book? I have two, I said.
A book?
Yes, I have two, I said, showing the appropriate amount of fingers.
No, she said, and went back to crying.
I’m sorry. I just wanted to take your mind off of all this.
But she said nothing. I left and drove back to work. My boss, like creeping death, tutted, pointed to the clock.
Late again, he said.
I was helping a victim.
A likely story.
But I was kind of like a hero, I said.
My boss walked away. But the thought gnawed, sewn its way into my psyche. I did a good deed. I helped! It certainly wasn’t on my list of things to do this morning.
I was a hero, I texted her later. I helped process trauma.
Seriously, she texted back. We’re done, sorry.
I bought you a book. It might help us understand what happened to us. Maybe we can reconnect. Maybe we can learn to move again. We moved so well.
I don’t want a book. I don’t want other things. I wanted you. And you couldn’t give me just you. You always had to give me something else instead of you. And I’m fucking sick of it.
But I gave myself earlier today. I’m learning. We can regain ability in terrific ways.
She didn’t respond. On the way home from work, I noticed much more trash than normal on the streets. It was concerning. It made me think of where I grew up. I stopped and pulled over to take a closer look. There was nothing I would have ever wanted, but there was always something in there that someone could use, and I have to admit, it made me feel better. Across the street, there was a bar, and the bouncer was smoking and watching me. And in this, I felt better – I had entered someone’s life again, briefly. I waved. He shrugged. I stood in the trash, fiddling with my mask.
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Kevin Richard White is used to rejections. He has written some things, but not all things. He lives in Philadelphia. You must please follow him at @MisterKRW over there on the Twitter.
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image: Stephanie Jacobs
Rejection Letters 