Here I am.
I’m here again, back at the outskirts of love. I left the city because of the same reason we all usually migrate: over-population. If you can’t be the one when that’s all there’s room for, you pack your bags: load it with souvenirs from days and nights spent; add to the baggage of a heart well traveled. I’m a Pullman port…
“What can I get for you?”
Um…I’ll take a small coffee. Light roast. Leave room for cream, please.
“Ok. Will that be all for you?”
“Ok. That’ll be $1.44”
“Debit or credit?”
“Thank you, Mr. Stitu…Stiutu…Sti…”
It’s Stitution. Justin Stitution.
“Oh…Sorry. Thank you, Mr…Stitution. Enjoy your coffee.”
No, thank you…[squints at name badge]…Sarah.
She blushes as she hands me the cardboard-protected paper cup. I give her a spurious smile to diffuse the awkward moment we both just stepped on. Human interaction is a fragile concept. Psyches are both made and broken from seemingly simple exchanges of words. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then the sharp iron has, by no means, any match for the tongue.
I’m a Pullman porter. Well, at least that’s what I tell them. I had to leave the city. There was no room. I was forced out; black-listed; expelled. I’m an expatriate. I’ll always love that city; it will always be a part of me.
Fine, I’ll get it off my chest.
Damn, this shit burns my tongue every time; where’s the half and half?
No, not that. Sorry. Anyways, I’ll get it off. There’s a story.
So, I fell in love with a girl who had been eaten alive; swallowed whole.
By what? A monster, of course? What else devours a live human being?
Just think about it. I wasn’t there when it happened, but I’d imagine the sight was quite grotesque; a young girl resisting; fighting for her life as this monster overtakes her. She kicks and screams; punches and whales; pleads and cries. Yet, this beast, this ogre of a thing, opens its mouth and forces her down its throat. May its intestines have mercy on her soul. That damn city.
So, yea, it ate her alive. When something eats you alive, you become a part of it. When it moves, you move. What it digests, you neighbor. It controls you. That monster.
Lucifer. Who likes a lady of the night better than the son of the morning? He was born of the bright light from a rising star. Ha! She was doomed from the start: mornings, bright lights, rising stars. Never had a chance.
Eventually, she made her way out of the beast’s belly; took the backdoor. She exited with the stench of love gone sour: too much time spent in high temperatures. Cool down, baby.
She felt like shit, and because of that feeling, she was hardened. How did I know? You could tell. Some nights the moon would stare at her, and she’d glare back; the wind misdirecting her hair; the stars undressing her with their eyes. Yet, nothing fazed her. Her heart was broken.
I glue it together. But, at the end of the day, it’s glue. When a heart shatters from a hardened soul, the answer is not something that in itself cements. The solution, is instead, a treatment I would never discover either because of mortality or fate—the type of decision that we leave to history’s burden. Maybe that’s the reason I’m telling this whole series of memories; because herstory has a burden too.
Excuse me, can I get another lid. This one won’t stay on?
“Oh, yes. Here, you go, sir? Anything else?”
No. No thank you.
So, what do you do when you’ve been hardened and broken? My knowledge of Physics is limited. So, I’m not sure of the scientific validity, but from lessons of love, I’ve seen that this process turns the heart quite cold. Cold enough to make memories of passion become repellants; frigid enough to blind a lover from concern; brisk enough to make a woman call upon a hitman, a proven assassin: Karma. I hope they both burn in hell: the creed of a lover scorned.
I know what you’re wondering now: what happened to the girl? I don’t know. You tell me when you see her. I left, remember? I’m a Pullman porter.
“Hey Stits! Get your ass on this train! The passengers are about to board!”
I guess it’s time for me to go.
Damn, that was some good ass coffee.