It’s amazing what a couple of good
night’s sleep will get you. Maybe it’s all the fresh air and back-breaking snow
shoveling I’ve been doing lately, but something’s working right.
I did end up going back to sleep
the other night. I dropped off again at maybe half past midnight. Last night, I
slept the whole night through as well. And I did dream, but it was normal stuff
-- none of the nightmarish stuff that’s been plaguing me lately.
It’s interesting. I saw Sarah
today, and, instead of getting all freaked out and staring at her, and wanting
to follow her, I just kept walking. Sure, my heart was in my throat, and
beating a million beats per minute. But I just kept walking, and I think I made
it look like things were cool and I was over her.
I should be an actor. Like I said,
a couple of full nights’ sleep works wonders.
The thought of actually being "over" her and being able to play that
part reminded me of something, though. A conversation that Sarah and I had not
all that long ago. Back in the fall of 2010, in November, I think, Sarah and I
were driving back after seeing the latest Harry Potter movie in Sudbury.
We were in her father’s 76 Impala
-- a brown beauty of a car with a convertible top. Of course, it was too cool
out to have the top down, but man I loved driving that car.
That was the great thing about
that car. Sarah loved to drive it, and so did I. It was fun, too, because when
she was driving, I’d be undoing her front zipper and slipping a hand under the
waist band of her panties, rubbing her with my finger while she drove. And when
I was driving, she would either be playing with my nuts or stroking my cock.
That night, she was giving me one
of her nimble and expert hand-jobs when the conversation turned to University.
Sarah was talking about heading off to Carleton University in Ottawa. She is a
brilliant writer and has always wanted to be a journalist. Ever since I’ve
known her, she’s always loved to write. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that one of
the only reasons I’ve taken to following the guidance counselor’s advice and
writing these journal entries is because on some level I’ve equated writing
with Sarah. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, writing this stuff gives me
the sense of being closer, somehow, to Sarah.
And it’s funny, too, because this Frank
guy who leaves me comments from time to time mentioned that he thought I’d make
a good writer. I guess I must have picked up at least a little bit of talent
from Sarah and maybe it even shows.
Anyways, Sarah wanted to get in to
the journalism program at Carleton, and I wanted to stay here, attend Cambrian
College. I’ve always said that I wanted to take the Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning program,
but that’s just been an excuse to stay here in town and keep doing the things
that I’m doing until I can figure everything out.
I’ll be fucked if I really know
what I want to do. I need a few years of just living and not going to school in
order to figure out what that might be.
They should make that mandatory,
you know? I mean, how the hell does anyone who’s 18 know what they want to
spend the rest of their life doing? College or University should start a few
years after high school -- give kids a chance to figure out what they want to
do. It’s all too damned rushed. No wonder our generation is so damn fucked up.
But I wasn’t about to admit my
reason for wanting to stay around here to anyone -- least of all Sarah. There,
see how that’s working. The guidance counselor would be damn proud of me, I
think. I AM admitting it now, and admitting it to anyone who happens to read
this. So it’s not like I’m just admitting this to myself. I’m admitting it to
the world.
Anyways, back to that night, the
night we were coming back from the last Harry Potter movie. There was a scene
in the movie about the School of Hogwarts that reminded Sarah about something
she’d read about Carleton University. Something about the underground tunnels
that completely connected all buildings on campus so that you don’t need to go
outside at all. Apparently, if you lived in residence on campus, you could
attend classes in your pajamas, never needed to take a step outside in the snow
all winter. She thought that would be the coolest thing, and was hoping that
she’d be accepted into residence there.
She started talking about all
that, and I immediately became flaccid in her hands.
“Peter,” she asked, still trying
to work some life back into my now unresponsive cock. “What’s wrong?”
I’d been about to say it, about to
tell her why I got so tense, so upset when she talked about University, about
moving to Ottawa -- that I knew what would happen. She would move away, and at
first we’d miss each other, call every day, write letters, send emails, make
trips on the bus back and forth. But then after several weeks, maybe even a
month or two, she’d make new friends, begin a new life with new people that had
more in common with her. We’d slowly start to drift apart. She’d stop returning
my calls.
We’d stop being a couple, two
people who knew they were destined for each other, and we’d become friends.
Then, maybe after only half a year passed, we’d barely be in contact with each
other at all.
The mere thought of it, of being
apart from Sarah, of losing her like that, it burned a hole in my heart.
Whenever we talked about differing paths after high school, Sarah always
reassured me that we’d be together forever and that we were soul mates and
meant for each other. She talked about these future fantasies she had of the
two of us, some time off in the distant future, both of us in our thirties, a
married couple, and doing fun couple things in our home and on our various
vacations.
But I knew the whole thing was
inevitable if she moved away. I’d seen it happen to a friend of mine a couple
of years ago when his girlfriend’s family moved away. It didn’t matter how much
two people tried, or how much they both wanted it not to happen. It happened.
People grow apart.
I’d been about to tell her this
when I spotted a pair of eyes low on the road in front of us, two sharp points
reflecting the headlight beam. Then a second pair almost above the other. They
belonged to two small dark shapes sitting in the middle of the lane immediately
ahead. I tried to swerve to miss them, but they started skittering off in the
same direction I’d swerved.
The car hit them with a sickening
double thump as the tires rolled over them, and Sarah screamed while I adjusted
the car back into the proper lane. An oncoming driver who had to brake as I’d
swerved laid into his horn, but I barely heard it for the maddening thud of my
heartbeat in my eardrums.
We immediately smelled the
unmistakable and putrid scent of skunk in the air.
We’d hit a pair of skunks.
“Holy shit,” Sarah said. “Did you
see what they were doing?” She paused. “I think they were fucking.” And then
she started laughing. “Man, we’re bad news to a skunk’s sex life.”
I didn’t laugh though. I didn’t think it was funny. It was disturbing to me.
We’d just killed two animals attempting to come together and mate. And it
happened at the same time we were talking about our own fate as a couple.
It disturbed me deeply.
But I didn’t realize until now just why.
The damn thing was symbolic of the break-up of Sarah and I. It was -- what the
hell does my uncle like to talk about when discussing movies? It’s when the
director sets up a scene that alludes to something that is going to occur later
in the film -- it was foreshadowing. Yeah, that’s it. The skunk death was
foreshadowing things to come for Sarah and me.
This event just mocked me,
reminding me that the whole thing was inevitable.
But there was one other thing that
disturbed me about that night.
Once I caught my breath and got
the car back under control, I realized that my cock was rock solid again. Sarah
had removed her hand when she shifted back over in her seat while we were
swerving on the road, so she never noticed. But I wonder what she would have
thought about that.
Fuck, I’m still not sure what I
think about it.
