If you haven't read the first part yet, best read that first.
http://sanchonino.joeuser.com/article/303437/La_casa_vidriera_-_A_Tragedy_in_Two_Acts_part_one
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05 Mar 2008. 4:24 pm.
Hillary and I went for a walk through the old part of town today, just meandering with no particular destination in mind, and with no other goal than simply being together.
As we strolled slowly, I put my arm around her firm, toned waist. She burned with a vibrance, like a spring that can tense and leap in an instant. I don't know if I've ever known someone who is quite so vibrant, shimmering, and alive.
In everything she does she is intense, focused, driven. Yet she can calm, relax, and just be.
What did I ever do to have this opportunity? Why is this vibrant, beautiful girl even talking to me, much less hugging me, kissing me, running her hands over my cumbersome body?
I can't help but fear that this will end. Soon. And badly.
But I hope it doesn't. And for now, I pull her closer to me and enjoy some time with her.
Please don't let this be too fleeting.
06 Mar 2008. 6:23 am.
Read this day's post here.
http://sanchonino.joeuser.com/article/302892/Portrait_-_a_poem
07 Mar 2008. 11:15 pm.
Curse my latent ability to prophesy.
The short: Hillary and I – over.
The long: I'm sitting at my desk, working on my critical analysis of Wilfred Owen's “Futility” (nice bit of foreshadowing there, Professor Style) and enjoying Ghosts I-IV, the new NIN album. There's a slight knock on the door, and I holler to come in. It opens, and there she is, big beautiful green eyes full of thick, wet tears. My heart sinks because I think I know what this means.
I stand up, walk to her, and grab her hands, asking her what the problem is. She collapses against me, raindrops careening from her pained eyes onto my chest, little windows of sadness coursing down her freckled cheeks.
She cries for a moment, and I steel myself for whatever may come. Finally, she explains to me that she's just gotten off the phone with her ex-boyfriend. (Their relationship had lasted for three years, and the breakup had been really hard on her.)
She explains to me that he wants to get back together with her, he wants to see her again, he wants her to “come home” during the school break for Holy Week.
My throat tightens up as I ask her what she's going to do.
She looks into my eyes with those pools of melancholic hazel, and she replies that she's already purchased the train tickets.
I answer with the only word that seems able to escape my suddenly-dry mouth, the only thing that can roll past my fat tongue and through my teeth - “Huh.”
She continues to cry, intermittently apologizing. I stroke her fine, black hair, knowing it's for the last time, telling her it's okay and I understand.
She gives me one last kiss – tentatively, lightly, lacking all the sensuality and fury she usually kisses me with – and walks out my door, apologizing again and saying goodbye.
It's not okay. I don't understand.
But at the same time, it is, and I do.
Crap.
I turn back to Wilfred Owen, crank up Ghosts III, and get back to work.
Crap.
08 Mar 2008. 4:13 pm.
Part of me is angry. It says, “How dare he just call her up like that, expecting all to be forgiven, and that she'll just run back to him? Moreover, how can she just take him back so quickly after he hurt her so?”
Part of me is despondent. It replies, “What makes you think it was him? She was looking for a way to end this farce of a relationship. You suck. Go trip balls.”
Most of me is in complete emotional disconnect, still trapped in that final word I said to her - “Huh.”
What a way for it to end.
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