FINAL DESTINATIONS
Landon was trying to decide whether or not he should pour himself another glass of scotch. After all, he might as well allow himself to enjoy one of the few benefits of Laura’s having left him. Her strict Southern Baptist upbringing had always risen over her head whenever he drank in front of her, glowering down at him from its halo-like position. Even a jolly good buzz, having the time of its life, couldn’t hold up too happily under that kind of scrutiny. He rarely drank much anymore, a fact he hadn’t realized until last month, when Laura had walked out the door, announcing she wasn’t coming back this time. That did it. Just one more glass, and he’d sip it slowly.
The problem was, the buzz wasn’t too strong tonight, and what was there wasn’t jolly at all. It was extraordinarily morose and mope-y, only seemingly gleeful when it could get him to circle around and around all his shortcomings, all the reasons Laura had truly meant it when she said she was never coming back. His mind was stuck in one of its eddies, nearly drowning, while his body was managing to measure out the scotch for the third glass, when the phone rang. Immediately, he shot back up to the surface.
The clock on the microwave glowed 10:42 p.m.; it could only be Laura. He contemplated not answering it. Of course, he couldn’t be absolutely certain it was Laura. He didn’t have caller i.d., having held out on his declaration not to succumb to every technological “must-have” marketed to the masses of American sheep out there who seemed to hang out in fields, just waiting to be herded around by clever advertising. He was so singularly focused, though, so sure it would be her, he never suspected it might be someone else. Six months ago, he would’ve dreaded answering a phone that was ringing at this hour, worried he’d encounter the familiar voice of one of his parents or siblings in a panicked state.
He grabbed the receiver off the wall just before the answering machine would have taken over, his eagerness to talk to her winning out over his desire to let the machine pick it up in the hopes she’d wonder where he could possibly be. He had to pause for a minute at the jolt he received when the voice at the other end of the receiver turned out not to be Laura, turned out not to be anyone he would ever have expected.
(TO BE CONTINUED IN OCTOBER)
Landon was trying to decide whether or not he should pour himself another glass of scotch. After all, he might as well allow himself to enjoy one of the few benefits of Laura’s having left him. Her strict Southern Baptist upbringing had always risen over her head whenever he drank in front of her, glowering down at him from its halo-like position. Even a jolly good buzz, having the time of its life, couldn’t hold up too happily under that kind of scrutiny. He rarely drank much anymore, a fact he hadn’t realized until last month, when Laura had walked out the door, announcing she wasn’t coming back this time. That did it. Just one more glass, and he’d sip it slowly.
The problem was, the buzz wasn’t too strong tonight, and what was there wasn’t jolly at all. It was extraordinarily morose and mope-y, only seemingly gleeful when it could get him to circle around and around all his shortcomings, all the reasons Laura had truly meant it when she said she was never coming back. His mind was stuck in one of its eddies, nearly drowning, while his body was managing to measure out the scotch for the third glass, when the phone rang. Immediately, he shot back up to the surface.
The clock on the microwave glowed 10:42 p.m.; it could only be Laura. He contemplated not answering it. Of course, he couldn’t be absolutely certain it was Laura. He didn’t have caller i.d., having held out on his declaration not to succumb to every technological “must-have” marketed to the masses of American sheep out there who seemed to hang out in fields, just waiting to be herded around by clever advertising. He was so singularly focused, though, so sure it would be her, he never suspected it might be someone else. Six months ago, he would’ve dreaded answering a phone that was ringing at this hour, worried he’d encounter the familiar voice of one of his parents or siblings in a panicked state.
He grabbed the receiver off the wall just before the answering machine would have taken over, his eagerness to talk to her winning out over his desire to let the machine pick it up in the hopes she’d wonder where he could possibly be. He had to pause for a minute at the jolt he received when the voice at the other end of the receiver turned out not to be Laura, turned out not to be anyone he would ever have expected.
(TO BE CONTINUED IN OCTOBER)
posted by Emily Barton at 4:02 PM
1 comments
