Haunted by Love

“I’m haunted,” he said with a despairing sigh worthy of the stage we were under and all the odd bits of waiting theatre artifice long stowed and forgotten. “Wherever I go, whatever I do, she’s there, in my thoughts, my daydreams. I’ve tried to drown her out with music, but I can still feel her there, like she’s standing at my elbow.”

“Sounds like you’re in love,” I smile at him. He’s not looking at me, just staring into space.

“Love,” he repeats. “Yeah, kinda, but I’m desperate. I’ve never been this way about a girl. I’ve, well, I’ve been around. I’ve, I’ve never wanted someone so much.”

“This is sounding familiar,” I say.

That breaks the spell. He turns on me.

“I’ve never felt this way before.”

“No,” I agree. “I mean me. Cindy, remember. I think I said just about the same thing.”

“I warned you about Cindy,” he said.

“Yeah,” I mumble. It was my turn to break eye contact. “You did.”

We both reviewed the past year in silence for a while. I, or just my hands, rummaged around a prop box searching for what I know not. There was nothing more to be said about that episode, I hoped, that hadn’t been said and forgiven. Somewhere, the old pipes started rattling.

Sighing, Andy stood up.

“That’s why I’m worried. You had it bad and,” he paused, and I waited, knowing what he would say, “well, we all told you so. I got it bad this time. I don’t want Amanda to end up being my version of Cindy.”

“Cindy’s turned me into a bit of a cynic, you know. I was already thinking of heading back up there just to find that old sign we’d made, ‘No Girlz Allowed.’ I was going to post it on my apartment door.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I’ll save you the trouble, it’s still there, nailed over the treehouse, and I can bring it down when I pick you up Wednesday?”

The question in his voice was unmistakable.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll meet Amanda, but I hate all women now. I’m just waiting for my misogynist card in the mail. I intend to tell her that she shouldn’t be allowed to vote and explain to her that Aristotle was right about everything he ever said concerning her sex.”

“That’s fine,” he laughed. “I’ll just tell her you’re gay.”

We spoke a little more as we climbed out of the dusty basement. Miscellaneous topics of no import that were nonetheless the dearest means of friendship.