Collapsed

December 10, 2004

She leans her head against the window and stares out into the rainy, gray parking lot. The entire world has lost its color. She takes a sip of the hot coffee in her hands and a burst of warmth spreads through her body. But it doesn’t last. She glances down at the table and traces little circles in the ring of coffee where her cup has been sitting. Her cell phone rings. She glances at it but doesn’t answer.

She feels the pain swelling inside her. She bites her lip. The waitress breaks into her private world, “anything else for you, ma’am?” she looks up blankly and shakes her head. The waitress drops the bill on the table, the edge of it soaking up her spilled coffee. She pulls a crumpled ten-dollar bill out of her pocket and places it on the table in front of her. It’s far too much of a tip but she doesn’t care.

She slips on her coat, gathers up her cell phone and keys and is gone, unnoticed. Like the rest of her life; alone, unloved. Because he doesn’t see her. Because he has her heart and he’ll never know it.

As she moves toward her car she can no longer hold back. She tries to unlock her car, but her hand is trembling too violently. Tears begin flowing freely, her body jerking with sobs. She collapses on the cement, helpless to fill the hole in her heart.

And no one is there to help her.