Chronicles of a Breakup Song

Short story. Fiction

It was quiet between the two of us, the only noise that surrounded the atmosphere of the '50s era diner was Mr. Witter in the back cleaning up.

“Wesley, you ok?” Hazel asks as she places her hand on my hand. Oh, she has the nerve, real nerve to even touch my hand and act like she is concerned about me.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you realized you killed me inside.” I said looking dead at her. “Wes. Don’t say that...I’m ” She laid back on the booth and folded her hands on her chest. “You know what, don't even call me that. Wes. It's Wesley to you” I interrupt her sentence. “Why are you breaking up with me?” I ask her. “Because I can't breathe” she said lightly. “You can't breathe, so you need space, fine I'll give it to you” “No, not space, space is for time to clear your mind, I'm done clearing my mind.” She runs her hand through her hair. “So, it's time?” “Wes, I mean Wesley stop.” “Stop what?” “Stop trying to fix it.” “Fix what? Last I remember it wasn't even broken.” “My heart isn't a machine and you are not a mechanic.” “What does that mean?” “It means, I can't have you fixing problem after problem that our relationship has.” “What are the problems that our relationship has?” I asked. “No life, charisma, feeling; we act like statues.” “Statues? Who acts like a statue?” I replied “Well, let's start with you. You are predictable, boring,...” She started to count with her fingers. I looked at her yellow painted fingernails and started to tune her out. What she is doing is sinister and heartless. Breaking up with me now! At a time when I thought our relationship was going well — she had to drop the ball.

She didn't even talk to me about it — “our problem”. I thought we had a pretty good run, I mean, where was the bomb in this relationship? I look at her go at it with her hands and let her listen to herself as she points out and dissects every little problem she thinks I have or every problem I might of caused. But, let me tell you this, what she caused me was joy, laughter; she gave me soul and life—not heartache, pain or death like she claims I gave to her.

The first time I saw her pretty brown face, my band and I were performing at the Blue Moon; our first show as a band. I spotted her in the crowd of 250 people; her sparkling hazel eyes brightened the dark room. Our first kiss was under an umbrella of a thousand twinkling stars on a hot summer night — we slightly shivered as the breeze brushed our skin. I remember the time we were at the store rushing to the cash register 5 minutes before it closed. She hopped into the basket as I pushed her — dashing through everyone knocking their items out of their hands and grabbing some of those items and claiming them as our own. On my birthday we laughed hysterically with ice cream filled mouths as we got brain freeze. We used to sit outside the drive­ thru movie theater because we were just too broke and lazy to pay for a five dollar movie. We made up what the characters were saying and basically acted out the whole movie. Many times I held her petite body in my arms as she cried on one of her bad days. Eighteen months might have been torture for her, but it has been life for me; it has been lyrics to my songs. She says I should move on and forget. I don't want to. I can't — she is the only color I see; the only taste I need; the only smell I breathe. So, you want me out of your life?

Well, I'm not letting you go or those memories of us I keep tucked away in my brain. It might be over for you but it's not over for me.

“Wesley...are you listening” She stopped fussing and looked at me. As I came back to earth there was a moment of silence between us. The same silence that possessed our tongues earlier. The same silence that was broken by Mr. Witter rambling in the back. I turned to her and smiled slightly. I looked at her hazelnut colored face get lighter as she waited for me to reply.

“No.” I said smiling.