The crying is what always gets to Ben. Acid that etches into his ... No, don’t say “heart.” Ben wouldn’t get caught in that trap again.
Okay, but Tracey sure knows the break-up drill. First and last: make it hurt; it’s her specialty. Red raw cheeks, stringy after-sex hair, “I-thought-we-had-something-going” patter.
From the bathroom, Ben hears bottles dropping into a plastic shopping bag. Inching toward the front door, he whines, “Tracey, you don’t have to do that.”
Hears, “No(sniffle, sniffle),” breath catching. “I do have to do this. It’s called (sniffle, cough) closure.”
“Oh yeah.” Ben lips the word, ‘closure.’ Mumbles, “I remember that one.” It’s an icy wind from his past: “closure,” what therapists prescribe to kill all the memories — the good, the bad, and the silly — like an indiscriminate anti-biotic. A laxative that empties your soul.
Tracey slinks from the bathroom. Drops the Ralphs bag full of discarded Ben mementos on the coffee table. Sits on her couch. Allows him to see a leg, thighs, a hint of crotch that he is going to miss. Covers with her robe and rests her arms across her stomach, bends forward to underscore the pain he causes her.
Eloquent, that’s what she is.
“You want the Bowl tickets?”
Pleasant surprise escapes. “You got them?”
“Yeah,” with eyes saying, that hurt. “There were plenty left after all.” Takes a cheap shot. “Apparently not much demand for Greek folk music concerts.”
“No kidding?” Ben regrets this, then thinks, fuckit, be tough. “You don’t want them?”
She makes a face that Ben remembers later as the one bright spot of the evening. Dumps the tickets into the bag with Ben’s parting gifts, holds the burden toward him, her eyes squeezed tight. Ben takes the bag without touching her hand.
“I found the (sniffle) blue briefs I bought you. I put them in there.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks,” mumbled aloud. “Wondered where those went to.” Resumes his moon-walk retreat. “Better be going, Trace. Meeting at nine and you, probably, well ...”
Her hands press against her eyes. She runs fingers through her hair. “I’m calling in sick,” seeps through elbows.
“Sure, good idea.” Waits for the next volley, but her timing is perfect. He would have to stay on the hook for another in the string of silences. He owed that much.
Fingers near the doorknob, he risks one more word, just one: “Then ...”
He hasn’t accounted for her talent for ambush. Tracey the Tracer, he once named her.
Sniper bullets zing into Ben’s body without mercy: Thud! “Shaeffer, you’re just like the others, after all. You make a clean getaway, slink into the night.” Thump! “You won’t find anyone better than me, you know. Not in a million years.” Thwak!
Wounded, he still finds the strength to grasp the knob. “I know, Trace, I won’t even try.”
Walking the stone lane to the condo gate, wounds begin to sting. He post-mortems the exchange in his head. When he gets to the curb, he dumps the Ralphs bag into a trash container — after removing the Bowl tickets.
“I know, Trace, I won’t even try.” That was good, he says to himself later. That was at least something he meant at the time.
Under the circumstances, it was almost admirable.
Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein
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