Too Fast for The Inexcusables

It was a pounding heart one could acquire only from a desperate drive through the night with a screaming cat in the car. San Diego, California to Pueblo, Colorado: Roughly 16 hours. But I have always been an unskilled navigator, so my journey to you surpassed 24 hours. 24 spur of the moment and grueling hours. As an addict to mistakes, I, succinctly, am a slave to impulse. 

The tank nearly on empty and mere pennies in the bank, those final few miles on that uncharted road seemed to stretch for eternity. Just beyond eternity, however, the path dumped me in that nearly deserted Barnes and Noble parking lot. The air seethed with heat, granting further significance to the icy chill upon initial entry. Crisp, new pages fluttered with every turn of the innocent perusal. Effortless dark roast swirled through the air in tempting but ultimately empty, caffeinated promises. After spotting you, I bound up from behind and wrapped my arms around your unsuspecting figure. It has been a year. A year and 24 agonizing hours. 

Our reunion was one of passion. The kind of unsustainable passion that weathers 22 year olds. The kind that withers away youth and replaces hope for a bright future with hope you can fix an unfixable thing. The sly brand of passion that tricks you with just enough bliss-- which is barely any if we are being honest-- to keep you motivated. 

That was July in Pueblo. Now, it’s January in Boulder. It’s January in Boulder and it’s snowing. It’s January in Boulder and I have been reminded why we never worked. 

Because,

We screamed too many unutterable defamations in unbridled spite,

And smashed every symbolic article in a shameful rage.

Too often, reluctant tears slipped stubbornly down my cheek

In the midst of sleepless nights while you escaped to safe and deserved slumber.

With every grievance, I progressed down an ironic path towards a personhood of that which would deny me the one thing I needed in order to be better: your devotion. With every instant, I drew closer to fully proclaiming an identity of one whom you could never love. Not fully, anyway. But it is January, and it is snowing, and we haven’t fought today. 

Let’s go sledding! I’ve never been. You haven’t been in years. It’s a good day. 

It’s easy to examine the bountiful moments of deceit and scrutinize the other characters we allowed in, diagnosing our failure to the inexcusables. She cheated, it’s over. He hit her, it’s over. There’s satisfaction in the logic of that narrative. Things transpire in a way the audience truly believe they ought.

Resentment, however, builds, not in the wake of the devastating blows, but in the spaces left by the tiniest acts of neglect. A forgotten anniversary, an overlooked birthday, a rejected dinner invitation. He starts coming home later. The texts and phone calls grow clinical. Did I even say “Love you.” before I hung up? I don’t remember. All those times he didn’t bring her flowers and all those mornings she chose to sleep late over sharing the morning and a cup of coffee before he leaves for work. 

But it’s January, it’s snowing, and we have both had our coffee. So, I want to try sledding. We load up the plastic, made-for-kids sled. You know, those ones with the knotted, rope lead you can get at Target or Walmart. The frivolous expense made me uneasy at the time of purchase. I shouldn’t have been so reluctant over twenty dollars. I knew how it would make you happy. I’m glad we got it.

We head to the local park nestled in modest and gleaming suburbia. You coached soccer for the grade school kids here. I was impressed, you’re a natural with kids.  

“There’s a good hill there,” You recollect. I don’t typically like trying new things with you-- or in general, for that matter. It always seemed so exhausting and I’m already fatigued from life. But January days blanketed in snow have a certain protective quality for the ego. 

We climb to the top of the hill, the sled’s knotted, rope lead firmly grasped between your fingers. Your other fingers intertwined with mine. The chill pierces our lungs. You demonstrate proper seating position. Clumsily, I mimic. You push me from behind. 

Whoosh! 

I manically cackle in pure childlike joy. As the whistling wind whips in my ears and I cascade down the hill, I am liberated of all our inexcusables. 

Maybe the wind swept them away. 

Maybe I abandoned them atop the hill. 

Maybe, for now, I am just too fast for them to catch up to us. 

Later, in our apartment, we reminisce over a video you took of us sliding down together. My toes and fingers sting as they dethaw. You note how you will cherish the video when one of us is gone. I laugh at the morbidity. The fire crackles and we sip store brand, instant hot chocolate.

Eventually, the inexcusables, caught us. Bogged down by the little acts of neglect, we never stood a chance of out running the crumbling foundation on which our love grew tainted and soiled. I feel the sled’s knotted, rope lead slipping through my fingers as our snowy hill melts into a mountain of past due bills, suspicious rendezvous, and empty bottles of varying sorts. We never went sledding again. 

It’s four years even later now, it’s January and it’s sunny in different states. I asked if you could send me the video. You said you couldn’t find it. I know that’s code for you deleted it in an episode of jealousy. You assure that you are not that petty.

I’m saddened because it’s January and I want to go sledding again. But there’s no snow, so I can’t. I have held hope for our remission. But we both know, they can’t be outran--the inexcusables. So I sit in quiet submission and let them envelope and consume until, void of choice, I finally release the sled’s knotted rope lead.