Breaking Suburbia

She stirred her orange juice with a straw, eyes fixed on the rainy outside, but more importantly, the door. Being late afternoon, the café bustled with a vitality that rubbed off on Maggie herself. Evidence showed itself through the girl’s confident grin, the way her shoulders arched backwards instead of self consciously navigating forwards to create a hunch of protection. She felt different, the normality of meekness still lingered in her, but it was not as potent.

Confident or not, at least the tingling returned when he pranced through the double doors. She never felt so delightfully vulnerable, for she had kissed that boy on the lips, that boy knew a lot of her secrets. The heart that beat inside her chest so rapidly was yearning for release, that moment to touch him. And within the blink of an eye, he was there. Love makes even the smallest amounts of time ridiculously long. We’re all teenagers when it comes to love; angsty, blinded by irrational emotions, but relishing in that freedom.

Maggie had lived the entirety of her life locked in a silver cage, nested on this pedestal self doubt sat her upon. The funny thing about her silver cage was the fact the door had been opened all along, she just needed someone to come along and hold her hand on the way out. Chester sat across from her in the booth. Immediately, she released a steady flow of giggles.

“What is wrong with you?” Chester beamed, biting his own lip to refrain from the happiness fulfilling him.

Maggie shrugged, taking a large gulp of the orange juice. This was her heaven, the confidence that subsided in her veins. Scarlet smirked from behind the bar, prancing over to greet the happy couple at their booth. “May I get you something to drink?” Scarlet winked at Chester.

“Some orange juice would be nice.” He grinned as the woman sashayed away. His eyes didn’t focus on her; they focused on Maggie’s exuberance. When Scarlet was out of earshot, Chester continued his thorough integration, “What’d you do when I was gone?”

Maggie tapped her chin playfully, “I changed the sheets, I cleaned the counters, took a nap, and got ready.”

Chester sneered, taking the orange juice from the different waitress’s hands, setting it down on the table with a metallic clink of the glassware. “How about your day at the shop?” Maggie inquired, noticing the sullen air he carried about him, the way his shoulder slouched forward hinted at disappointment.

“There have been better days.” Chester replied, taking a sip of the orange juice. Maggie didn’t reply, trying to draw more conversation from him. It had worked in the past, and she’d be damned if it didn’t come to her aide once more, “My roommate decided it would be a great idea to redecorate the entire apartment in a Zen fashion. There’s a hammock over my couch.”

“Interesting.” Maggie stared at her fingernails. The vanity had faded from their conversation and they had settled into some sort of bored trance. Chester was glued to the news, despair and indifference painting his face as the horrors of war and destruction played out on the screen. Maggie watched the interactions outside, cementing her eyes to the pedestrians that appeared inherently natural as they strode down the brick sidewalks. Maggie pondered if she held that appearance of seamless conformity as she sat in the peeling leather booth.

Eventually, their food came and they munched on it in the comfortable silence. Maggie simply could not think of conversation that would not bore Chester.

Slowly, as her jaw mechanically moved to laboriously chew food. She asked herself those complicated questions that make a heart weigh more, those questions that always seem to shake a person’s foundation and outlook on the future. Maggie blinked, the rudimentary action felt like a daunting task as her eyes slowly pried themselves back open. Yet, everyone around her continued to function, no one noticed her gradually ripping apart at the seams. On the inside, she was shattering; on the outside, she was pushing the uneaten food around her plate with the tongs of a fork. “What are we doing, Chester?” Maggie sighed, slouching in her seat.

“We’re having breakfast for dinner?” He halfheartedly laughed as if it was some kind of inside joke. Maggie wished for an inside joke to be shared with Chester, but she knew that whatever this mess she’d mothered with him had to end here. The binds of commitment tore at her as her throat began to dry in nervousness.

“I need some air.” Maggie wiped her mouth hastily. Grabbing her bag, Chester was saying something, but she didn’t care, she stormed out of the restaurant into the humidity of the dusk. Sun shined in her eyes as the tightness of her jacket constrained her limbs. In a whirlwind of intensity and a strange emptiness, she tore the garment from her shoulders, shoving it onto a park bench she clumsily threw herself onto.

It was a while longer before Chester exited the establishment, but it wasn’t long enough for Maggie to contain herself. “Maggie?” He sat down next to her, obviously worried.

That was the worst part for her, the fact that he cared. The fact that she had stopped caring so long ago, the fact that the idea of hope was something that Maggie couldn’t allow herself to fathom; oh god, it was a wrecking ball for Maggie Wentworth. Chester was a punch to her nose. Chester was her lifeline and the noose around her neck simultaneously. “I was getting better godammit.” Her voice cracked in similarity to a squeaky door in the silence of the dawn.

“I was getting better.” She reiterated in a dull whisper.

“What’s wrong?” Chester raised an eyebrow.

Maggie grimaced. It was so hard to pick one thing that was wrong when it was so many factors that contributed to this state. “What am I doing Chester? What am I doing wrong?” She felt the tears spill down her cheeks. Panicking, Maggie tried to keep herself controlled; she was not a pretty crier in the very least.

“Nothing, we were just eating dinner.” He continued speaking with utter confusion. Maggie couldn’t blame the poor boy, he had no idea how much was wrong with her, how much had left her like this.

“I was so close.” She bawled, trying to compose herself, keyword being ‘trying’. She almost had it in her hand. We’re all chasing down that dream we cannot touch. The more Maggie tried to calm the tidal wave that crashed against her, the stronger to storm became. It was axiomatic she was going to have to wait this emotional hurricane out.

Chester exhaled, encircling his wrists as he wrapped an arm around her, bringing her closer when she wanted all the distance that the world could offer between them. It was a strange balance they possessed, and anyone with a heart would hope the love would flourish and the insecurities would be damned. As they sat there on that park bench, I couldn’t help being struck with the largest sense of desolate misery a person can experience. The sort of empty that isn’t entirely empty, but heavy and laborious, lingered in lethal quantities.

Because this fable is an example of the consistent circle we run around each other. And how I desperately wish it I was recounting a tale of something as trivial and beautiful as love—it isn’t. For words cannot serve something so treasured as love.