Surrender

Her throat is raw and aching from the yelling. The past hours have been spent screaming in an attempt to explain what she herself is unsure of. She can’t even remember how the fight got started but it doesn’t matter, they all end the same way. Her hands are sweaty and cold now, losing their claw-like grip on the phone. Sitting there on the faded green couch, with the pale brown walls creeping in on her she can feel her hands start to shake and in her mouth she can taste metallic shards of blood. The pricking sensation of fresh tears only fuels her anger and she unsure of how much longer she can stay in control.
“Are you still there?” echoes the question in his familiar, lilting voice. She can hear the irritated demand, but the words sound distorted and far away. The sentences swim above her head and she can feel her lungs begin to burn with a lack of air. Suddenly she is on her feet and in an equally swift movement her phone splinters into a dozen plastic pieces as it impacts the wall. The tiny bits lay on the floor looking helpless and she momentarily regrets taking her anger out on the innocent object now scattered about her feet. The anger pulsing through her veins won’t let her regret last long however. She is on her feet now, and they are moving her towards the door, but she can’t remember telling them to do so. Walking like someone under a trance she comes face to face with the door; her way to escape the smothering surroundings of this still house. Her fingers grasp the handle and it is cool beneath her fingers; a soft contradiction to the force with which she twists it open. The sudden surge of violence leaves the screen door swinging repeatedly against the brick siding as she trips down the steps that lead to the street; the sound rings in her ears.
Outside the leaves have begun to curl with anticipation of rain. In her haste she didn’t think to grab a jacket and her arms shiver in protest. The sky is a dull grey and the sun has not chosen to show its face today. Wind dances with the dried leaves that litter the street, swirling up from the ground and then slowly filtering back down with a subtle, erratic grace. With her feet still independently in control she finds herself sprinting down the street. Curious faces blur past as her shoes pound the pavement in a steady rhythm. She hates them, all of them. With their perfectly painted houses and perfectly trimmed lawns- what do they know of life but barbeques with neighbors they secretly hate? Fake smiles and feigned interest; she runs faster.
A few blocks later, gasping for air, she finds that the cement has at some point turned to dirt and the grass of well-manicured lawns to rocks. Bent over in fatigue she squints at the lake quivering before her. Of course, though her mind was unaware, her legs knew right where to lead her.
Beneath a small assembly of trees stands the frame of the old, rotted bench swing which creaks beneath her sudden collapse of weight upon it. Smells of earth and a sudden dampness swirl about her, consuming her. Above the clouds have assumed position of authority in the sky, and their distant grumblings speak of rain. Even now the wind smells of water. As she sits alone, with her back hard against the crumbling wood of the bench, she wishes that life would pause for a year or two, leaving her here at the edge of this rippling lake. Time to think, that is what she had told him she needed. Here, with the lake as her backdrop she wants only to think about the sound of the trees; of the birds that cry in mock concern for the coming storm; of the dry rustle of the reeds; of the squeak of the chains that suspend the bench as she rocks back and forth.
Thunder rumbles again, closer this time, and with it come the first drops of rain. The drops splatter her shoes and in the water around her, making soft, wet noises as they land. They run down her bangs and onto her chin, pooling finally in the folds of her shirt. She lets her head fall back to rest against the bench; eyes closed she lets the droplets take the place of stubborn tears she cannot cry. Her hands relax from their claw-like state at her side; surrender.
Amidst the downpour she hears the approach of unsure footsteps; they pause hesitantly at her left. Her eyes blink open to see a face staring at her own, questions illuminating the familiar, murky green eyes. His hair is damp, and sticking out in places as if his fingers have run through it too often. His hands are balled into fists and jammed into his pockets; shoulders slightly hunched. Their eyes lock and the whisper of a smile shimmers in her eyes, but doesn’t quite make it down to her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” her voice comes out dry and uneven.
He doesn’t answer right away, and instead remains standing with his foot absently tracing lines in the dirt that is quickly becoming mud. Beneath the slight roof of the bench she is sheltered from brunt force of the rain, but this drenched Greek god before her has no relief. Instead his black tee shirt has become a second skin and his shaggy, espresso-colored locks are now molded to his forehead.
“Call it fate.”
“Meaning I ran past your house and you followed me.” He smiles and dips his head in agreement.
“Mind if I sit down?” He asks, giving his wet hair a slight shake. A few of the droplets land on her arm.
“I’m a little tired from the run,” he adds.
His breath is all too even, exposing his half-hearted lie. With a sweeping motion of her hand she motions to the open space beside her. His tall frame bends slightly to fit beneath the shelter of the roof as he sits down. He gives his hair a tousle and as his arm falls back to his side she notices the small tattoo located at the inside of his wrist. She loves this tattoo, it’s a small sunset scene with the words “A Norterst” written in surprisingly delicate lettering; a stark contrast to his strong hands that led up to his tanned arms. She doesn’t know what the phrase means though, she has never asked.
Her fingers fidget with a rip in her jeans, near her right knee. She twists a stray thread around her finger; the pressure turns her finger a sickly purple color before it finally snaps. Still focused on the frayed tear she asks.
“What do the words in your tattoo mean?”
“Hmmm? Oh, they’re Latin for ‘from start to finish’.” His hands are warm on hers as he gently pulls her fingers away from the hole in his jeans and into his hand instead. She traces the words on his wrist with one finger. She looks out towards the disturbed waters. The rain has dimmed to sprinkle and the horizon has begun to shift its hue. Bright pinks, faded yellows and fiery reds have taken the place of the former blue and grey streaked clouds. Seconds turn to minutes but the silence is not uncomfortable; it is not forced. As the sun become serious about reclaiming its place low in the sky and the light strengthens even as it begins to dim she speaks again.
“Why did you get it? The tattoo I mean. I’ve known you for years and I don’t even know what significance it holds for you.”
“I love the sunset. When the light clings only to the bottom of the sky, casting its light strongly still; it is in those moments that I feel alive. If only because I know that I have indeed made it through one more day, that each tick of the clock has brought me to this point. It speaks to me, congratulating me on all I have overcome; on what I can now refer to as my past. I have competed the day from start to finish.”
He goes silent, just looking at her with those great green eyes, waiting for her response. She loves looking at his face, his perpetually clenched jaw, his soft lips, and his eyes shadowed beneath his lashes.
And so they sat together on the bench, watching the sunset stake its claim among the lingering clouds. She thought about her earlier fight, and for a fleeting moment the rage came surging back, but just as quickly it was gone. She looks at his tattoo again and is enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There were days when she was happier to see the sunset than for it to rise, but they were only a few days of many. From start to finish; that’s all that life was- a journey from start to finish.