The Sad Man
by Glenn Yates
Grey shirt, grey slacks, teeth still white, standing out in stark contrast with his grizzled, weathered face. Forty-three years, mostly unkind, the last three nearly unbearable. Only the cheap wine could dull the pain, and only dull it, never make it go away.
He was sober now, though not by choice. Sober, but sick. Sick and disgusted and craving drink. He no longer hoped to change, no longer cared what people thought, or at least no longer had the power or will to affect what people thought, so he tried not to care. In his mind’s eye he saw her face and though he felt unworthy to even think of her, but he could not help himself. It pained him, but pain was an old friend, and he deserved the torment he told himself.
She’d be twenty-nine now, the same no-longer-young age he had been when they had met. She’d smiled at him that first day like no one had ever smiled at him before, and his heart had come alive. He’d never before been in love, rarely had even been infatuated, but now against his wishes he was taken prisoner.
The first year he strained against it, but with every warm breeze, every snowfall, every fireplace on a winter night, her voice and gaze would haunt him. At last he could restrain himself no longer and made his heart known to her. He cringed for the thousandth time at the thought. She was flattered, he supposed, but uncomprehending. Word got around and his career was ended. The double blow of her ultimate rejection and his public humiliation
had been too much for him to deal with. Despondent, he began to drink.
Fourteen years now. Fourteen years he had watched himself spiral down, bit by bit, day-by-day, until he had become the unrecognizable animal that he was today. The cold pavement reminded him of this, reminded him, as it seeped into his back, that only animals live like this. Why? He asked pitifully, beginning to cry softly. One month, maybe one day, and it might have all been different. A secret love might have remained secret, that gaze might have been his forever. Now it was not the gaze, only the memory of the gaze that must last a lifetime. And it is not enough.
Grey shirt, grey slacks, teeth still white, standing out in stark contrast with his grizzled, weathered face. Forty-three years, mostly unkind, the last three nearly unbearable. Only the cheap wine could dull the pain, and only dull it, never make it go away.
He was sober now, though not by choice. Sober, but sick. Sick and disgusted and craving drink. He no longer hoped to change, no longer cared what people thought, or at least no longer had the power or will to affect what people thought, so he tried not to care. In his mind’s eye he saw her face and though he felt unworthy to even think of her, but he could not help himself. It pained him, but pain was an old friend, and he deserved the torment he told himself.
She’d be twenty-nine now, the same no-longer-young age he had been when they had met. She’d smiled at him that first day like no one had ever smiled at him before, and his heart had come alive. He’d never before been in love, rarely had even been infatuated, but now against his wishes he was taken prisoner.
The first year he strained against it, but with every warm breeze, every snowfall, every fireplace on a winter night, her voice and gaze would haunt him. At last he could restrain himself no longer and made his heart known to her. He cringed for the thousandth time at the thought. She was flattered, he supposed, but uncomprehending. Word got around and his career was ended. The double blow of her ultimate rejection and his public humiliation
had been too much for him to deal with. Despondent, he began to drink.
Fourteen years now. Fourteen years he had watched himself spiral down, bit by bit, day-by-day, until he had become the unrecognizable animal that he was today. The cold pavement reminded him of this, reminded him, as it seeped into his back, that only animals live like this. Why? He asked pitifully, beginning to cry softly. One month, maybe one day, and it might have all been different. A secret love might have remained secret, that gaze might have been his forever. Now it was not the gaze, only the memory of the gaze that must last a lifetime. And it is not enough.
posted by Glenn Yates | 12:57 PM
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