Entangled

Broken hearts don’t always give up.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This short story is presented for personal entertainment only. Commercial and all other use is expressly prohibited.

(c) 2015-2017 Robert Horseman, All rights reserved.

This is nuts. I’ve repeated this to myself at least twice an hour for the past week. Now it’s more like twice a minute. I’m crouched behind a palmetto palm tree in the chilly predawn hour, perhaps seventy-five feet from the bench. The land drops away fifteen feet in front of the bench, giving a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. Sunrise here can be magical, and this morning is shaping up to be grand with the scattered cloud cover. The first pink rays are peeking above the ocean surf. I turn my head to the crunch of a step on the pathway, and my heart skips a beat as I hold my breath. At this distance I can’t make out her face, but I can tell it’s her anyway. Everyone walks in their own unique way, and you don’t live with someone for two years without picking up those subtle clues. She stops in front of the bench, looks out at the advancing dawn, and sits. If I am to be completely honest with myself, I have to admit that I never thought this would happen. It makes no logical sense, and yet here she is. I stand, take a deep breath to calm my nerves, and walk up behind the bench. I make no attempt to muffle my approach, and she turns her head in my direction when I get about ten feet away. Her eyes go wide, and she says, “Michael? What are you doing here?” Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, which always makes her look like she is seventeen instead of twenty-seven. I motion to the right side of the bench which she had left open, and say, “May I?” “This is not a good idea, Michael. It’s over. We both agreed.” She wrinkles her brow. “You’re not a stalker now, are you? Did you follow me here?” “Sara, I know what it looks like, but I didn’t follow you, honest. I came here for the sunrise, like we used to. I love this place. You know that.” She looks out at the orange and pink sunrise and says, “Yeah, me too.” “May I sit? I have something to tell you.” She stares at me for an uncomfortable moment, then shrugs, “Suit yourself.” It isn’t much of an opening, but it’s something at least. I sit, leaving a wide space between us so she won’t feel emotionally threatened. “This is going to sound weird, so bear with me, okay? If you want me to leave when I finish, then I will, I promise.” She rolls her eyes and tips her head, which I take as an invitation. “Have you ever heard a mother say that she would know if a son or daughter was in danger, even if they were grown adults living in another state? My mom used to say that about me. She even called me once out of the blue, fearing for my safety.” “Michael…” “She was right. I had broken my collarbone on a ski trip to Vermont.” Sara sighs. “Coincidence, Michael. One time doesn’t prove anything, and what’s this got to do with us?” I shrug. “Perhaps nothing, but answer me this: Did something happen to you on Thursday, around four in the afternoon?” Her head comes up fast, and she stares at me. “Why do you ask?” “Because I felt something — something about you. Like you were scared. I wanted to call but it sounded ridiculous, even to me. Did something happen?” She is silent for a long beat, then said, “Yeah, a car accident. Another car crossed three lanes of oncoming traffic in front of me. I was in the right lane, and couldn’t see him past the other cars. It scared the bejesus out of me. Fortunately neither of us was hurt, and the cars had mostly minor damage.” I purse my lips and let out a breath. “Do you still believe my Mom’s call was coincidence?” “It’ll take a lot more than that to convince me of some psychic link between people.” “You’re right, of course, except that you are here.” I pull a folded piece of paper from my pocket, and hold it just out of her reach. “What’s that?” “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Do you have your day-planner with you?” I know she does since she always carries it with her, despite the fact that only luddites use them anymore. “Yes, why?” “Would you show me your entry for this morning?” “Michael, I don’t show my day-planner to anyone, not even to you when we were together. You know that.” I hand her my slip of paper, which is my calendar tear-off page for today. She takes it, unfolds it, and stares, apparently transfixed. Her hands are trembling. I say nothing and wait. She reaches into her purse and pulls out her day-planner, and opens to a page. Her eyes dart from the planner to my calendar page and back several times. I quote the words on my calendar page for today. “Saturday, August twenty-third, sunrise at our favorite spot. God I miss us.” She turns to me, and a single tear runs down her cheek. She chokes on a word, then starts again in a hoarse whisper. “It’s exactly the same.”

•••••The End •••••