Yes, I know what’s probably waiting for me out there- just more heartbreak. Yes, I was also in full control of my faculties. I’m all there upstairs the last time I checked. The sensical voice in my head told me that dates all end up the same way- at least they will one day- with a bad ending, tears, and a heart that I have to glue back together, but the nonsensical voice told me to keep hoping.
Hoping for what?
I sigh deeply as I sink down between two boxes and rip a strip of tape so ancient off of one that it gives easily, peeling away like it’s made of paper and dust. Oh wait. I think that’s just because I took off part of the box because it’s so bloody old.
I rifle through the contents of the box, which look to be old school assignments. They’re vastly amusing, especially since there are some in there from grade three all the way to grade twelve. I pull out the books we made about how we liked to spend our winters (which is silly because this is NOLA and winter is basically the same as summer), a magazine that I had to put together, which was construction paper and cut outs from other magazines, a few posters that I made for various projects, a book of photos from grade eleven physics. My hand pauses in my digging when my fingers brush over the smooth, worn paper of a huge envelope. I pull it up and let out a gasp of thrilled delight when I realize what it contains. For our grade twelve English project, we had to make a collection of writing. This envelope contains, according to the marking structure taped to the back, two short stories, one longer story, an editorial style piece, one personal piece, a social justice article, and five poems in different styles.
How could I have forgotten about this?
Now that I’m holding it, I remember exactly what I wrote about. I remember lines from the poems, how I poured so much of myself into that writing. I channeled almost all my emotions. It was a project that we were supposed to work on all year, and while everyone else probably just slapped theirs together the night before or the week before, I actually did carefully write all year. I spent hours meticulously choosing pieces, editing, typing everything up on expensive paper and making sure each sheet was crisp and pristine.
I sit down hard on the floor, easing off my knees, which were cramping and burning from being curled up underneath of me for so long. The pages still feel crisp as fresh linen and buttery smooth in my hands as I start flipping through them.
An hour and a half later, my phone goes off and I’m still sitting here, wiping at tears that are streaking down my cheeks, lost so far down the rabbit hole of reminiscence and whimsical nostalgia that I can barely pull myself back out to wonder why my phone is making strange noises.
“Gahhhh!” I let out a shriek and jump up so fast that my left leg Charlie horsed painfully and I go down hard, catching myself on a stack of boxes to break my fall while I flip into my side and moan and cry, clenching my teeth and rubbing out the painful spasms that are turning into a fist in my calf muscle. My left hand is still holding the phone and it’s still going off. I bring it to my ear, remembering just now that I have a date with Daniel and he’s probably sitting outside my place right now. “Hello?” I pant. “Daniel?”
Daniel’s deep voice is somewhat puzzled, and no small amount alarmed. “Leandra? Are you okay? You sound like you’re in pain.”
I’m touched by his concern, even as I start to panic. The throbbing into my head turns into a scream. Or maybe that’s my leg freaking out hard at me still and all the pain is rocketing straight to my brain. “I’m okay,” I gasp. “Just got a leg spasm. I- I’ll be down in ten minutes. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Take your time. Do you want me to come up? Do you need help?”
“No, I’m good. It’s already going away.”
“Those things hurt for a while though, after they happen. When I get one, my muscle is sore for days.”
“I haven’t got one in ages.” This is so unsexy. “I probably forgot to drink enough water.” Yup. This whole conversation is a real bloody turn on. Congrats on the foreplay, Leandra. Congrats on actually remembering your date and being ready.
I ignore the snarky voice in my head berating me for looking like a grimy dust ball and get off the floor as fast as I can make myself. The pain really is subsiding.