SIENNA
August 2nd, 2015
I sat, baking in the sun in my shorts. No differently than any other sunny August day, it was difficult to breathe the thick humid air, but the warmth of the sun felt good on my bronze skin. Under the cover of sunglasses, a messy bun, and a tee shirt I had spent all day doing yardwork in, I drank my iced coffee and listened to my iPod.
As “Come Back to Bed,” by John Mayer played, I closed my eyes and hoped to become one more shade darker by the time I decided to get up and go home. Over the course of the summer I had become quite a fixture at the coffee shop, often spending an entire day relaxing in the warm summer sun. I pulled my feet from my flip-flops, propped them on the chair beside me, and took a sip of my coffee.
The song ended and “Modern Age,” by Eric Hutchinson began to play. I closed my eyes and did my best to sing along with the fast-paced song, but quickly found out that I knew only about half of the words and was left in the dust by Eric’s ability to keep up the pace. I had spent my entire life without an iPod, relying on my CD player in my room, car, and living room for music, but after purchasing one, found downloading music and using the shuffle option to be quite enjoyable.
A live version of “Daughters,” by John Mayer caused me to open my eyes, stand from my seat, and sway back and forth on the concrete patio. Certain the patrons in the store and the handful of people outside thought I was absolutely insane, I imagined being at a John Mayer concert with my father listening to the song, and in a short time, wondered if he had ever had an opportunity to hear it before he passed away.
As the song came to an end, I pulled the earbuds from my ears and dropped them onto the table. I took a sip of coffee, gazed out into the street, and wondered what Anita was doing, thinking, and most of all, feeling. I truly missed her, Bradley, and the dinners I had become so accustomed to having.
It was easy for me to slip into a period of self-pity, but as soon as I recognized what I was doing, I made every effort to change my way of thinking and do my best to become grateful for what Vince and I had for the period of time we shared, and not dwell on what happened or what I lost.
I decided what happened was another case of nothing but the unexpected result of the natural development of life, and attempting to call it anything but fate would be to fall back into the state of self-pity.
So far, considering the depth of my love for Vince, I was doing rather well, at least in my opinion. I knew I would never recover, and my lifetime would be spent without something I was well aware I needed to be my true self. Living without Vince in my life was much different than living without my father.
When my father passed, I quickly came to an understanding of how much I loved him, missed him, and how deeply I wished he was still with me, enjoying time together as a family. In losing Vince, I realized I lost not only a lover and a person who was important to me, but I truly felt I lost a part of myself.
Now feeling as if I was incomplete and knowing the feeling would never fade, I wondered if Vince felt the same way and was simply either too stubborn to admit it, or chose, as I did, to accept it. If he accepted it, in a strange sense, it would almost be as if we were still together in spirit, but separated physically. In my odd way of thinking, I liked to believe that was the case; and we were together, but separated by space and nothing else.
As I stood in place attempting to cool the concrete with the shadows from my bare feet, the rumbling sound from an approaching group of motorcycles caused me to glance in their direction. Four motorcycles pulled into the parking lot, one behind the other, and parked directly in front of where I was seated.
They weren’t one percenters, didn’t wear colors, and seemed like some friends who were just out riding together, but they reminded me of Vince nonetheless. In being honest, everything reminded me of Vince, but it wasn’t surprising to me at all.
There was no doubt in my mind that if Vince allowed someone into his life, be it a lover or a friend, they would immediately be intrigued by him, and never be able to replace him with anyone comparable in quality, diversity, or genuine kindness.
Vince was big, mean, tough, and willing to walk into the depths of hell; alone and without fear. Considering this made it difficult to admit, but Vince’s only real fault in life was a fear of being hurt.
Not physically, but emotionally.
And I had no intention of causing him any additional pain.
I loved him far too much.