Short Order Writers Wanted. Must be willing to write for 20 minutes. No Grammar Snobs Need Apply.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Amie Getting Married
Amie Getting Married
It always seemed ironic her name was the same as the French word for friend. Cruelly ironic. Ah-mie, never Amy. She was the girl I fell in love with. Its never the easiest word to say and sometimes it can be the wrong one. You don’t throw it around as much as fucks and cunts, do ya? Strange that... I can say she’s a fucking good cunt and mean it in a totally respectful way, almost. Say that you love her... alarm bells start ringing and doors trap in words when others have already left. Amie getting married. Cruelly ironic. The invitation still sticks to the fridge. Held up by a Belfast City magnet I got years ago. It shares its space with other wedding invites I haven’t had the pleasure to decline yet. Reluctantly of course. Weddings as you can imagine aren’t for me. The DJs blast House of Pain. I’m sat at the table talking to some guy I’ve never met before and I feel like I’m failing to justify my existence to him. I said yes to Amie’s. Why did I do that? The days of sharing the sheets are longer past than when they were happening. Guilt? Love? Self-inflicting pain? I’ll leave the reasons to the man or woman with the crossword puzzle as I lay on a cushioned couch one day. The car doesn’t seem to have any power. If I broke down on the side of the road right now, I wouldn’t mind. 5 hours to Maine. What am I like? Gluten that’s what! I’ve come to far now surely. Next exit is Maine. Across the bridge on I-95. I used to come this way loads when we were back in college. 5 hours that ended in the middle of the night. Camp fires, beers, and weed. I always passed on the Mary Jane. “Any mellower...” I used to think. A few more exits and I’ll be there. I cringe at the thought of seeing her. We’ve never stopped knowing each other. We’ve had our share of fall outs, but we got it together to give the illusion of a couple from time to time. Now she was marrying some fat git who worked for Wal-Mart. I shouldn’t say that. He works at the distribution center. Genuinely nice guy, which makes it even worse - I can’t even hate the cunt. The exit is up ahead. Take first left then 3rd right. Almost too simple. Cuelly simple. I feel my face getting red as the balloons usher in cars down a long drive way. It comes to a roundabout infront of an old stone building. I don’t recognise many. The few I do, don’t see me. I want to be invisible. I want to not be here. I feel sick that I’ve tricked my soul into coming. 2nd exit to park. 3rd exit to bring you back to the front gate. I say to myself out loud “Oops!! I have the wrong place.” I only do it so I save my soul and I fool those who might’ve seen me. I need to get petrol, I have an easy 5 hours of driving ahead of me.