“Crying always reminds me of that time. Gracie cried so much I thought she’d never stop.”
“I’m sorry I cried,” Delores mumbled. “And then laughed,” she chuckled. “That was a little weird—for both of us.”
“Aah, it’s no problem. I don’t really mind. Like I said, sometimes we’re meant to meet people in this world, even if just to share a taste of our lives with them. A piece of our pain or maybe some of our happiness, it’s all the same to me.” He twirled another daisy. “Maybe we can each share a bit of each other’s baggage and make it a lighter load for one another to carry.”
She nodded in agreement. She wasn’t really intending to share anything else with him, certainly not her baggage. Her baggage wasn’t the normal kind. It wasn’t hating her job, or a bill she couldn’t pay. Her baggage ended in blood and tears.
“I’m not much good at sharing,” she replied honestly. And it was true. Michael had always encouraged her to keep her emotions contained, her thoughts wrapped up tight. “My head gets all confused,” she confessed.
‘You don’t make any sense, Del’. He’d say to her, his eyes squinting in annoyance at her ramblings. ‘You need to book another appointment.’
So she did. For years she kept her feelings and thoughts all wrapped up tight until it was time for therapy, and then she would spew everything out in one long gust. Like tumbleweed, the things she had been analysing so obsessively would drift away and she’d leave feeling a hundred times better. Her head a hundred times clearer. But things would always get muddled again. Like everything in life, she supposed.
Mark pointed to the still drying damp spots on his shirt. “I don’t know if I believe that, you shared a lot today.” He winked to show he was joking, and Delores blushed.
“I’ve never really shared so much with someone. Only one person ever got me to open up,” she said almost wistfully, her mind trailing after a name that continued to evade her.
“A taste of something can spark bigger and better things. A taste can inspire intrigue and make you beg for more. Make you want more. Make you ravenous for it.” He turned to look at her now, forgetting the daises he had been fiddling with. His expression was serious. “A single taste—even accidently—can change your entire life. It can change everyone’s life.”
They stared at one another, unspoken questions lingering in the air between them. Mark looked away, his cheeks flaming like he had said something that he hadn’t meant to. His hair fell and hid part of his profile from her.
“What do you do, Mark?”
“I’m a poet.” He turned back to her and smiled proudly. “What’s your name?” he asked.
She considered telling him; letting him have her name, perhaps he would grace a poem with her name in it and she would exist forever in black and white somewhere upon someone’s bookshelf or maybe just in a scrap of faded paper in his notepad. But then she decided against it, decided that she didn’t want her name to live on after she had gone. She wanted no part of her left in this world, and soon, that would be true.
“It doesn’t matter,” Delores sighed again, aware of the noise this time. “I need to get going, Mark. I have things I need to be doing.” With that, the dull ache started in the base of her head again.
Delores stood, brushing off the back of her jeans. She hated small talk. Hated talking to people she didn’t know, but even she couldn’t deny that it had felt good to do those things with Mark. This stranger. Her taste of something different. Maybe her last taste.
“Goodbye, Mark,” she said, not waiting for him to respond, because in truth, she didn’t want him to. He had already given her something she wasn’t worthy of—comfort. She began to walk away, the sounds of the traffic on the highway in the distance and her shoes against the road the only noises she could hear.
Delores reached her car, unlocked it, and opened the door. She pulled her purse off her shoulder and threw it inside. Climbing in, she felt a little lighter. Her head felt a little clearer, despite the headache slowly building and the confusion that was always there. She started the car and opened the windows to let some more fresh air in.
“Do you want to go and get a drink?”
She yelped as Mark’s face appeared at her open window. “Mark, you scared me.”
He looked sheepish and held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, my fault. But do you?”
She looked out of the window in front of her, the sun would be setting soon and night-time would swiftly follow. She thought she’d be there by now, thought that it would all be over, but instead she’d spent the better part of an afternoon crying out her shame onto a stranger’s shoulder. God, if Mark only knew the things she was capable of; the crimes she’d already committed, he wouldn’t want to go get a drink then, that was for damn certain. She was a terrible person, the worst imaginable.
Mark looked perplexed. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Let’s go get a drink? I mean a real drink.”
Delores looked around unsure. She needed to get going. Day was giving way to night. She would have to find somewhere to stay soon. That was the problem with early mornings; she found she couldn’t drive as long through the day. Sleep deprivation and a mind full of grief and guilt would do that to anyone, no matter how strong they were. But to Delores, who was already so broken to start with, the long days were savage. “I don’t know.”
“Just as friends of course,” Mark added quickly. “I just like talking to you is all. It’s easy. I don’t find it easy to talk to people these days. But you, you make me want to talk.”
“I don’t think I believe that,” her mouth turned up in a sad attempt at a smile.
Mark laughed. “Well, I don’t get to talk to anyone with real substance like you. People are always so self-obsessed, it makes me sick. But you’re different.”
It had been a long time since she’d had alcohol, it wasn’t good with her medications. Besides, there never seemed time to drink in her old life. Always so busy with one thing or another. With the children and their activities, or cleaning, or cooking, or helping Michael with something or other. He hadn’t liked her to drink, said he didn’t want her to turn into one of those desperate housewives who drank all day and night. Drinking makes you bloated, he’d said, and he needed her to look her best at all times. So she hadn’t. Besides, with her medication she wasn’t really supposed to drink. But right now a drink sounded good, but it also meant more small talk.
A child’s voice rang through the air, drifting on the crest of a breeze. Delores looked up, watching as a mother and her small daughter walked towards a car and climbed in. The little girl was probably about ten, long blonde hair trailed down her back, and her smile beamed up at her mother.
“Please?” Mark whined, offering her a small smile again.
