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By Andrew Price

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Stopping for a moment, I stood squinting into the distance as the hot sand

blew across my face. I struggled to look down the dusty old road on which I

stood. Unable to see my destination, I soon realized it didn’t matter. It

was Tuesday, and I had been down this path before. The monotony of life had

become all too familiar. Looking behind me, I saw the darkness approaching

in all its fury. Small strokes of God flickered across the sky as a

deafening roar filled me with knowledge of the coming peril. “I had better

hurry”, I thought. The storm was going to be bad, and she was waiting on



Unable to find the gait to run comfortably while holding my things, I ran

awkwardly down the path. As I ran, my thoughts slowly faded away from the

aches and pains of my body, and soon, my thoughts were only of her. I

imagined her; her reaction at my return. In my mind’s eye, I examined her

beauty. I thought of the way her hair would fall, slowly moving across her

face to reveal two shining hazel eyes staring back at me. Her tan skin lit

by the tiring sun would gleam across the room as she moved to be near me.

Moving in perfect harmony, she would put her arms around me and not remind

me that I was late but rather look into my eyes with the understanding look

that told me it was okay. I imagined our faces drawing near, and as our

lips touched, the roar of thunder jolted me back into reality, back into the

pain and suffering of the real.


Stopping for a moment to catch my breath, I realized I was closer than I

had thought. I was only a couple minutes away from my purpose, from the

place of my daydreams. With a wipe of the salty sweat from my brow and the

energetic hop of my new first step, I once again began to run. The pain in

my side was approaching unbearable, and without the knowledge of a quick

conclusion—of the end of my suffering, I doubt I would have been able to

continue. The storm drew closer by the second. I could hear it. I could

sense it moving with the seemingly inevitable precision of fate.


Then I saw it: my home, our house. Spurred by the sight, I ran even

faster, ignoring the pain from within; for pain from the body can be

ignored. As I drew closer, I had to smile as my gaze fell upon the

ridiculous pink door. The rest of the house from the outside was a dull,

drab brown with the obviousness of its old age showing at every rusting nail

and every rotting plank. I told her it would look funny, that our neighbors

would think we were crazy, but it was to no avail. With a pouting look on

her face and using the familiar girlish voice she would use when she wanted

something, she reminded me that we didn’t have any neighbors and that it was

the color she wanted. I had to give in, and at the sign of my resignation,

she jumped with glee and immediately began to paint it that absurd shade of

pink. It didn’t matter, I surmised, and after awhile, I had grown fond of

it, despite its unsightliness.


Finally reaching the porch, in near complete exhaustion, I opened the door.

Expecting to see everything from my visions—everything to the minutest

detail—I walked through the door looking up. I expected to see her worried

at my absence. I expected to see her every movement in my direction. I had

expected to see her. As I came in, though, I realized she wasn’t in the

seat by the window where she always waited on me. It was Tuesday. As I

walked in and sat my things on the floor, I could hear that the rain had

started. These storms, unlike the ones from where I was from, came with the

sudden randomness of a thought and a fury to which I was unaccustomed. The

sound of the heavy downpour against the tin roof consumed the house and my

calls out to her. Wondering where she might be, I looked for her first in

the kitchen, then in the bedroom and upstairs. In a moment of panic, I even

looked in the closet, and then, then I realized her clothes were gone.

Unable to tell if I was asleep or awake, I stumbled about the house. Near

madness consumed me as I pulled the pink door open and ran outside into the

pouring rain. Maybe I was hoping to catch her on her way down the road.

Maybe I was hoping that I would find her coming back from the laundry mat—I

don’t know.


Soon however, as I stood in the rain, I came upon the realization that she

wasn’t coming back. She was gone—gone without leaving a trace of ever being

a part of my life. There was no note, no explanation as to why, only the

memories of the time we spent and that damned pink door. There I stood in

the rain. My clothes and hair fully soaked, I didn’t shiver; for pain from

the body can be ignored. I felt the cold of the rain, the icy bitterness of

its touch. It seemed to enter me, to chill me to the core, that day. I

don’t know how long I stood there on that road, but it seemed like an

eternity, like the rest of my life. I stood there, unable to comprehend

what had happened because it was Tuesday and she was gone.


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