Breaking Suburbia

There are brief periods of light that infiltrate our darkest times, those moments where we are given enough hope to push forward through the evident and abundant darkness. I’m unsure of what fuels these small quips of life; I believe they are simply hallucinations.

Maggie laid on her side, staring out the panes of glass awaiting his arrival. Her tongue dripped with the words she couldn’t say in the moment. Gnawed stubs for fingers nails attacked the sheets, clutching the fabric in unrelenting fists of iron. Two additional bowls of soup were drained and she didn’t retain the slightest bit of the bloating sensation that came with consuming food. Along with her binge, she had showered, made the bed, and paced the hallway for what she considered to be thirty minutes or less.

Still, Maggie’s bones ached for something unknown. They yearned for spontaneity. Whining for movement they burst with uncontainable exhilaration. It was pure ecstasy, but with such passion comes a price, the unquenchable thirst that rooted in her would likely never be fulfilled because of menial phobias and stubborn ideals. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but stick one leg into worn jeans, pulling the material to sit pleasantly on her hips.

Her mind was unsure of where it was going, her lithe steps across the beige cobblestone were the only reminder that she was going someplace. The evening dew sprinkled her in transcending dew, making her spirit feel aloft. She needed that; oh did she need that feeling of suspended bliss! Maggie was unfiltered as she waltzed out of the wrought iron gate and moseyed down the street with a smile. Each step was more freeing.

She kept along her way until she ran into the grocery store that sat in the middle of the suburb. The place was jaded, splintered wood letters spelled out ‘Southwest Grocery’. Once a renowned grocer, the place had fallen into disrepair when a Wal-Mart opened in local vicinity. Maggie couldn’t stand Wal-Mart; all of the people rushing through the aisles, children, the buzzing of the activity were the conditions on a good day. Maggie couldn’t pinpoint which of those three reasons that she rattled off of the top of her head were the worst, but the extreme amounts of noise bothered her to no end. So, because of the numbing decibels, Maggie still treasured the aging store front when she found herself in need of socialization and food.

A bell jingled as she walked in and her delicate wrist wrapped around a plastic basket. Mustiness infiltrated her nostril in a robust manner before she situated herself to the air quality. It was a place of quirks and memories for her, whether they were good memories, that was another debate. She remembered holding her mother’s hands, the soft milky white hands, as she shyly advanced around the store on Sunday afternoons. Even then Maggie could recall her discomfort in the social setting as far back as four.

As Maggie’s hand shoved a head of crisp broccoli in the flimsy, limp protective covering. She shuddered when she recalled that one Sunday that changed her forever in this store. Maggie could still see her mother crouched in front of her, clutching her young shoulders with a teary face and begging her to “Break that idea, Maggie. You’re going to have to break suburbia for me one day, okay?”

Shaking her head to shake away the memories as if they were simplistic enough to be water on a dog’s coat, Maggie continued with the shopping. Quietly, she pondered what Chester liked to eat. She’d decided that if he ever came back that she’d make him a small feast he’d probably simmer about. Even though she reminded herself that she barely knew the man, it was hard not to feel connected to him in some way. Strangely, but a strange circumstance at all if it is properly analyzed by the rational and unaffected mind (a terrible thing if I do say so myself), Maggie already felt like she knew Chester for years. As she dropped a box of pasta in with the various contents of her purchases, she made her way up front.

A college kid rang her up, the total coming to about fifty dollars or so. Maggie paid, grabbed her bags, and stared out into the hopeful dusk. One foot placed itself after the other, plastic swished together, and the distant sound of innocence rang through the air in the form of rapid squeals of delight. At one time that was Maggie, running around with other children and breaking into beautiful hysterics, laughing until her stomach hurt and being so happy she could barely breathe. In adulthood, the statement commonly becomes inverse, you laugh until you feel better about circumstances and it’s only routine to be shackled to some degree of depression so painfully intense the rudimentary function of breathing seems laborious. The mind is a powerful entity, if one doesn’t have control over theirs, who will?

Maggie opened the gate with her hip, sliding into the driveway as the sun dipped below the distant indigo mountains. A man sat on her steps, hands holding up his mop of tight black curls. Her heart began to race, trying to find words to say to him, trying to find something better to do than to just be standing there when Chester realized he wasn’t alone and snapped his head up in curiosity. All she could manage was a weak grimace as the predicted action occurred.

“Where were you?” Chester raised an eyebrow.

Maggie gestured to her grocery bags, slightly lifting them to save words. “You could’ve left a note or something.” Chester spoke in a hushed manner so no one in the area would hear their private conversation. She appreciated that.

What she did not appreciate was the way she was being treated. Her nose twitched and fingers constricted around the plastic loops of the bag, tightening to iron fists. “Who do you think you are? You can’t just come into my life and start editing it? I’m not an essay.” Maggie spat, she was rather shocked at her cohesiveness. Judging by the look of defeat that settled in his jaw, Chester was rather shocked as well.

“I just want to help you out, Maggie.” Chester defended as she sat the bags on the bottom step and sat next to him. She was close to him; she was inhaling his musky sweet (in a masculine way, of course) scent. Maggie wasn’t comfortable in any situation, but this, this was the most socially demanding one she’d partaken in for literal years.

“Yeah, well...” Maggie frowned, loosing herself in his blue eyes as they plead with her. “If you want to stick around, you’re going to have to accept that I am able to help myself.”

With that, Maggie handed him the key. “Could you grab the door for me, please?” She blushed, gathering her purchases once again. Chester complied, though he bit his lip in order to refrain from what Maggie speculated was the urge to offer to carry everything in. She didn’t know whether or not he was staying the night again, she sure hoped he wouldn’t, that he would go home where he belonged and leave her to her own devices. It wasn’t that Maggie didn’t wish to see him again; it was that she didn’t find it particularly healthy to become so attached to something so volatile.