Short Fiction: The Moment
The first serious short story I ever wrote — when I was in high school
Here’s something different. This is the first genuine short story I ever wrote when I was 15. So bear that in mind as you read it.
The Moment
The stuffy air filled the café like smoke. He returned to the booth, where he sat across from his girlfriend. He sighed and pulled his hands out of the pockets of his jacket, realizing that the pockets did little to shield his hands from the cold air outside. His head began to throb, seemingly in rhythm with the obsessive ticking of his watch. The waitress walked by to check on their order.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” his girlfriend replied, quietly and without emotion.
“I’ll take another coffee, black,” he said, his eyes fixed on the concentric circle pattern embossed into the tablecloth. He traced the circles in his mind; it was the only way to escape the labored silence at the table, the only silence in the room. He had not gone to the restroom or to make a phone call, like he hoped she thought; he had merely walked away from the table for a minute, just to see if he could clear the cobwebs from his brain. If this is what it’s like to be in love, he thought, I’ll take lonely any day! When the waitress came back with his coffee, he somehow managed to nod and mumble a thank you without turning his head.
She was at her wit’s end. The thought of another evening of long, odd pauses between bits of stilted conversation was enough to drive her insane, without a doubt. Any thought that entered her mind was quickly pushed away by the overwhelming dread that seemed to dominate every part of her day. Had it really come to this? Was there nothing else between them? Had they ever really been in love? Was I careless, or just clueless, she thought, to have wasted all these months? She couldn’t bear the notion of a relationship like this one. All she could bring herself to do was stare at him as he stirred his coffee over and over, not even pausing to add sugar or cream or to test the temperature.
“Um, so I was watching this thing on TV the other night, about this elderly couple in Sweden who build furniture and sell it,” he finally said, tentatively, the end of the spoon ringing clumsily against the rim of the cup. “They make all this furniture by hand for celebrities like Jack Nicholson, Madonna, and Harvey Keitel, and they’ve made tons of money doing it, yet they still live in the same tiny farmhouse they’ve lived in for fifty years, and they drive the same beat up car they’ve always driven, and they milk their own cows and…”
She sighed a long sigh and shook her head, showing obvious disdain for this sort of small talk. Women are supposed to be the great communicators, aren’t they? The ones who can take anything and turn it into deep and meaningful conversation? Well, forget it, he thought. I’m not going to try anymore, then. I won’t say another word if that’s what this has come to. He looked up as she finally began to speak.
“Why don’t you ever really talk to me anymore?” she asked. She continued on, but he didn’t listen. Instead, thoughts of the friction that had recently erupted between them danced through his mind, taunting him. “Anyway, I feel like this relationship is going nowhere. I think we should open up our relationship, maybe start seeing other people.”
“Paige, I don’t think—“
“You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you? I could get more meaningful conversation, and surely more affection, from that brick wall over there than I’ve gotten from you these last couple of months!”
She was interrupted by the waitress, again. It was a little embarrassing to have to stop and answer a curt “fine, thanks” to the waitress’s question of how the coffee was. What was worse was that the waitress simply and unknowingly broke what little conversation was going on. Here it goes again, she thought, that awkward pause. Seems like that’s all we have anymore. She didn’t know whether to pick up where she left off or just scream and leave the room. To her, nothing was worse than trying to keep this relationship alive. In her mind, the best thing to do was just pull the plug, drape the white sheet over this one, and walk away. If I knew he’d agree to it, she thought, I could make a clean break, right here, right now. But as far as she was concerned, she had no clue what he wanted or what, if anything, was on his mind.
She stared at the coffee in the cup, wondering what it might be like to escape: to dive right in and get away, maybe even drown. It couldn’t be worse than what she was going through right this minute. Finally, she was startled by a heavy, deliberate breath. She fixed her eyes on his blank face, as he awkwardly put his thoughts into words.
“Look, Paige, no matter what, I love you.”
“Love? It sure is a strange sort of love!” Her eyes glazed over, harder and colder than he had ever seen. Over and over, she thought about their fighting and about her pain, how she didn’t know who he was anymore, and how she wasn’t even sure of who she was. She was angry and confused; she decided she definitely wouldn’t take it from him anymore. Suddenly she discovered she was beginning to cry; she wasn’t even aware that her feelings were that close to the surface.
He wiped a single tear from her eye. Ah, genuine emotion, he thought. She’s finally going to let me know how she really feels! He took her hand. This touch was uncomfortable for both of them; the air was thick with pain and uncertainty. He thought he had her where he wanted her now, in a moment of utter honesty and directness. Maybe this would be the beginning of reconciliation. This second in time could be a new beginning for them, the starting point for many happy times—not to mention the rest of their lives—together. He wasn’t sure what might happen now, but he knew it was a chance he had to take.
His hand was cold. She wanted to jerk her hand away from his, but she found herself oddly unable to move it. She didn’t know what she was feeling now; she was numb, and she decided she would rather feel one million other emotions than the nothingness she felt right now. She was unsure what this exchange would bring—resolution, maybe? Or would she continue to feel as alienated as she had been for too long?
“Let go of my hand,” she whispered.
Ready for something—anything, he held on. “I feel like…” he began.
“Steven, I said for you not to touch me.”
Immediately they began to argue. In their fighting, every ounce of their feelings for one another was wrenched out of them. They were causing a scene, but they were too wrapped up in the argument to hear or see anyone else. Nothing, it seemed, could stop the streams of emotion erupting from both sides of the booth. Through their shouting, both of them echoed the sentiment that their relationship was going nowhere. The minutes of their fighting dragged on like hours until, finally, they stopped shouting.
The other customers could once again hear the steamy blues emanating from the radio on the corner of the coffeehouse as an unforeseen silence swept over everyone. The waitress, horrified and shaken, began to clear the neighboring table quickly and awkwardly, cups and saucers clanging against each other as if to express their own emotion and indignity. Facing each other, the couple stood up at the same time.
“Steven—“
“Paige—“
He looked away, and she lowered her head. Suddenly, the moment was over.
Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash