A gray hair clung to the sleeve of Hatchet’s jacket and he contemplated it, knowing it belonged somewhere in the tussle of dirty blonde that he had to pull over his ears these last few weeks. It seemed to be waiting for a miracle. Waiting for the chance to catapult back into place among the other thousands of hairs on his head, maybe even regain the younger tint somehow. It doesn't work that way old boy, thought Hatchet. Once you're gone, you're gone. Take the pain, friend. He could hear Oscar lambasting a young customer at the register and turned to make sure it wasn't a Dog Boy. Hatchet had asked Malorie to meet him here that morning, assuming the Timothy Allen Teague's gang slept well into the afternoon.
She had been avoiding him for days since the incident by the fire. She had called him the next morning to tell him she needed to terminate their relationship and he would have taken her seriously if not for her recidivism. He had accepted her wish after their first sexual encounter and let her go but she called him the following day, full of apologies and the pattern was born. Hatchet's infatuation with her heart and her mind and her body kept him in this doomed campaign to unleash the young tranquilized animal near death somewhere in the burrow within her.
In the course of these repeated breaks, Hatchet soon deciphered her code and blamed it on her parents, although an admitted leap in logic had lead him to this conclusion. Her insecurities fashioned a truss of false rejection against men so they were forced to act, forced to struggle for her or flee, building strong bonds in her relationships but also sowing the seeds of inevitable frustration. At first, their battles for her gained them rank but after her fancy dwindled, no matter how hard they fought, they lost. Hatchet imagined a sobbing crew-cut Marine somewhere in a desert halfway around the globe, cursing her lack of correspondence or maybe his inability to erase her from his dreams. Malorie spoke kindly of him when Hatchet asked about him but her shallow treatment of his inadequacies, his bouts of extreme and violent jealousy, gave Hatchet a reason to be wary. He could see her delivering similar contradictory messages to whomever had the misfortune of following in Hatchet's footsteps.
Malorie gave him a condescending tilt of her head. Hello, mountain man. Hello, beautiful. He ordered her the usual chocolate whipped drink and waited for her to begin. She evaded the reason for their meeting by giving him the events of her morning. Taxiing some of her youth group to school, her failure to study for an exam due to an argument with her father, chasing her dog through her neighborhood after a crafty escape through a bathroom window. For the simple pleasure of watching her comical expressions, Hatchet let her chatter go on without interruption until she finally seemed to run out of diversions and they sat looking at one another for a while longer than Malorie could bear. She redirected her eyes to something behind him, some blank spot on the wall.
So what are we doing? Hatchet asked her. She sighed and excavated the courage to look him in the eyes. We're over, mountain man. You say that a lot. This time I mean it. Of course. Really; this whole thing has been a mistake; I've been using you. We've been using each other. No, no, really it is; I thought we could just have this thing and then it would be over but it kept going. It has. I just wanted, she took a brief survey of the room, presumably to ensure none of her teenage church group were in the shop, I guess I just wanted sex from you, Hatchet. Kiddo, he smiled, we've never had sex, not real sex. She blushed. I don't think you've ever had real sex, he reiterated. This raised her cockles. What is that supposed to mean? You know what I mean. I've had sex, Hatchet; Sammy and I used to fuck; I mean really fuck. I doubt that, dear. Doubt it all you want but you and I are done; it has to end. Why? Because we're so damned different first of all; did you really think this was going to last? our age difference bothers me. Bullshit. Our political views are at opposite extremes. Bullshit. You don't even believe in God, Hatchet. Bullshit. Stop saying that. You're running from this. I am; I'm running very far away from this.
Hatchet could feel her on the verge of revealing her intentions as if she were holding a rope, leaning over some precipice and she just needed a small suggestion to set the rope free and take the dive. Malorie, being honest with me is just the same as being honest with yourself, he said and he could hear the friction of the hemp against her hands and smell the heat as the force of gravity took the initiative and the rope painted blisters across her palms. Her eyes began to fill with the watery pain. She resisted confession but Hatchet had pushed her to the point of no return. She could never grip the line hard enough to escape terminal velocity, the fall became inevitable. As if her hands were his, he could feel them relent to the unknown.
Sammy and I are getting back together, she whispered and rubbed the moisture from her eyes, her mascara bruising their edges. There, Hatchet said, that wasn't so hard. I'm leaving for D.C. on Monday; he's meeting me there, on leave from the war; I hope you understand. I understand more than you know, beautiful; does he know about us? I’m going to tell him. As you should. Malorie’s confidence slid the length of her beautiful face and she said, I hope you find what you're searching for; you know, someone does love you, Hatchet; a special, unconditional love. Don't try to convert me, kiddo, not now. What makes you think—. Let it go; do your thing; I am who I am no matter what anyone will every try to tell me; I'm too old and stubborn to change that much. Okay, but I really want you to know how I feel about you, Hatchet; I really wanted to love you; you're all I’ve thought about since the night you left for Alaska. I know. I wanted so much for us to be together but—. More often than not, that moment when the object of our desire is firmly in our grasp is the moment it is the farthest from our reach, Malorie; it's a sad fact of life but one we have to accept. Okay, she said, her words laced with a stitch of defeat. Go be somebody, Malorie; don't compromise for anyone, not even Sammy, especially Sammy; okay? She reached across the table and took his hand. The hairs on his arm perked at the contact, surprising him in the realization that he might not have prepared as well for this break as he thought. We'll see each other again someday, she said.
The desire to tell her how much he doubted that would ever happen needled him. He ached to reveal her importance to him, unveil the fact that at one time she might have embodied all he ever wanted, how he had always seen her light as the never-ending sunset inundated with all the colors and pulchritude of the supernatural fires of the Universe, how he considered her a source of warmth he forbade himself to ever possess, never feel her red radiance engulf him and save him from himself but he rejected it all and just raised her hand and kissed her wrist and she disappeared forever... without apology.
She had been avoiding him for days since the incident by the fire. She had called him the next morning to tell him she needed to terminate their relationship and he would have taken her seriously if not for her recidivism. He had accepted her wish after their first sexual encounter and let her go but she called him the following day, full of apologies and the pattern was born. Hatchet's infatuation with her heart and her mind and her body kept him in this doomed campaign to unleash the young tranquilized animal near death somewhere in the burrow within her.
In the course of these repeated breaks, Hatchet soon deciphered her code and blamed it on her parents, although an admitted leap in logic had lead him to this conclusion. Her insecurities fashioned a truss of false rejection against men so they were forced to act, forced to struggle for her or flee, building strong bonds in her relationships but also sowing the seeds of inevitable frustration. At first, their battles for her gained them rank but after her fancy dwindled, no matter how hard they fought, they lost. Hatchet imagined a sobbing crew-cut Marine somewhere in a desert halfway around the globe, cursing her lack of correspondence or maybe his inability to erase her from his dreams. Malorie spoke kindly of him when Hatchet asked about him but her shallow treatment of his inadequacies, his bouts of extreme and violent jealousy, gave Hatchet a reason to be wary. He could see her delivering similar contradictory messages to whomever had the misfortune of following in Hatchet's footsteps.
Malorie gave him a condescending tilt of her head. Hello, mountain man. Hello, beautiful. He ordered her the usual chocolate whipped drink and waited for her to begin. She evaded the reason for their meeting by giving him the events of her morning. Taxiing some of her youth group to school, her failure to study for an exam due to an argument with her father, chasing her dog through her neighborhood after a crafty escape through a bathroom window. For the simple pleasure of watching her comical expressions, Hatchet let her chatter go on without interruption until she finally seemed to run out of diversions and they sat looking at one another for a while longer than Malorie could bear. She redirected her eyes to something behind him, some blank spot on the wall.
So what are we doing? Hatchet asked her. She sighed and excavated the courage to look him in the eyes. We're over, mountain man. You say that a lot. This time I mean it. Of course. Really; this whole thing has been a mistake; I've been using you. We've been using each other. No, no, really it is; I thought we could just have this thing and then it would be over but it kept going. It has. I just wanted, she took a brief survey of the room, presumably to ensure none of her teenage church group were in the shop, I guess I just wanted sex from you, Hatchet. Kiddo, he smiled, we've never had sex, not real sex. She blushed. I don't think you've ever had real sex, he reiterated. This raised her cockles. What is that supposed to mean? You know what I mean. I've had sex, Hatchet; Sammy and I used to fuck; I mean really fuck. I doubt that, dear. Doubt it all you want but you and I are done; it has to end. Why? Because we're so damned different first of all; did you really think this was going to last? our age difference bothers me. Bullshit. Our political views are at opposite extremes. Bullshit. You don't even believe in God, Hatchet. Bullshit. Stop saying that. You're running from this. I am; I'm running very far away from this.
Hatchet could feel her on the verge of revealing her intentions as if she were holding a rope, leaning over some precipice and she just needed a small suggestion to set the rope free and take the dive. Malorie, being honest with me is just the same as being honest with yourself, he said and he could hear the friction of the hemp against her hands and smell the heat as the force of gravity took the initiative and the rope painted blisters across her palms. Her eyes began to fill with the watery pain. She resisted confession but Hatchet had pushed her to the point of no return. She could never grip the line hard enough to escape terminal velocity, the fall became inevitable. As if her hands were his, he could feel them relent to the unknown.
Sammy and I are getting back together, she whispered and rubbed the moisture from her eyes, her mascara bruising their edges. There, Hatchet said, that wasn't so hard. I'm leaving for D.C. on Monday; he's meeting me there, on leave from the war; I hope you understand. I understand more than you know, beautiful; does he know about us? I’m going to tell him. As you should. Malorie’s confidence slid the length of her beautiful face and she said, I hope you find what you're searching for; you know, someone does love you, Hatchet; a special, unconditional love. Don't try to convert me, kiddo, not now. What makes you think—. Let it go; do your thing; I am who I am no matter what anyone will every try to tell me; I'm too old and stubborn to change that much. Okay, but I really want you to know how I feel about you, Hatchet; I really wanted to love you; you're all I’ve thought about since the night you left for Alaska. I know. I wanted so much for us to be together but—. More often than not, that moment when the object of our desire is firmly in our grasp is the moment it is the farthest from our reach, Malorie; it's a sad fact of life but one we have to accept. Okay, she said, her words laced with a stitch of defeat. Go be somebody, Malorie; don't compromise for anyone, not even Sammy, especially Sammy; okay? She reached across the table and took his hand. The hairs on his arm perked at the contact, surprising him in the realization that he might not have prepared as well for this break as he thought. We'll see each other again someday, she said.
The desire to tell her how much he doubted that would ever happen needled him. He ached to reveal her importance to him, unveil the fact that at one time she might have embodied all he ever wanted, how he had always seen her light as the never-ending sunset inundated with all the colors and pulchritude of the supernatural fires of the Universe, how he considered her a source of warmth he forbade himself to ever possess, never feel her red radiance engulf him and save him from himself but he rejected it all and just raised her hand and kissed her wrist and she disappeared forever... without apology.
Edit 1.2.2019