"The Morning After"

"The Morning After"

I remember a coin—a quarter, lying face down in the grass. I remember
my friend Lester's laughter, and my own reluctance toward the whole idea.
I remember all three-hundred twenty three minutes that we were on the plane,
and the one that saw my feet re-touch the ground.

I remember Los Angeles. I remember the busy streets and the buildings—
the smell, but not the paradise that Lester prepared me for. I remember
the hotel and the bars—the girls and the parties. I remember the girl at the
coffee shop in Hollywood, trying to carry her whole life in her arms at one time
and crashing to the pavement in front of God and everybody.

I remember picking up her things. And I remember her eyes and the cup of
coffee we had afterward. I remember her mother, and her downtown
apartment; the craziest decision I'd ever made, and my California
driver's license. I remember the roses—the wine and the candles, the first
mention of diamonds.

I remember the cliché dinners at Angenello's and the Garden Café,
and the cliché nights in apt. 402b. I remember the move back to Boston,
and the day that something changed—the corner booth at the coffee
shop down the street, and the failed attempts at reconciliation.

I remember the pair of worn out blue jeans at the counter, and the
black and red plaid flannel with the top three buttons left undone; the faded
denim jacket, the cream colored scarf, and the wavy red hair; and I
remember that she wasn't wearing any of them.

I remember the excuses and the late nights at work. I remember her
mother's nervous breakdown in early fall, and her plans to go home to “work
things out.” I remember relief—and my intentions. I remember taking off
work that Monday and the two-hour drive to a cabin in the mountains.

I remember those worn out blue jeans on the bedroom floor and the
mouthful of wavy red hair—the cold sheets and the warmth of a body lying next
to me. I remember the morning after—the sun shining in my eyes through
a crack in the blinds. I remember the cup of coffee and Good Morning America—
the phone call and the CNN headlines.

I remember her eyes, and the cold—and I remember a coin—a quarter, lying face
down in the grass.