Hi Litsters,
Wow, full time jobs really take time out of your day, don't they? This is the first miserable bit of literature I've managed to eke out since I joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. I hope you like it. Please let me know your opinion of the story in the form of votes and comments. Private email
feedback is also welcome.
The band mentioned in this story really do exist, and they're really quite good.
A massive shout of thanks to my editor, Bramblethorn, and my beta reader RuzieD.
"We accept the love we think we deserve."
β The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky
* *
PROLOGUE
"Why did that meeting take so damn long?" thought Moira, crossing the street. "It should've been over at least an hour ago."
She walked briskly along the pavement, her purse and shopping bags tucked under her arm. Her hair unravelled in the strong breeze, but she didn't have the time or energy to put it together again. Each step she took reminded her that she was old enough to have two teenage kids.
Her phone began ringing abruptly. Cursing silently, she balanced her load on her other arm to get to it. She pressed it against her ear and kept walking.
"Mom, why aren't you back yet?"
"The meeting took longer than expected, Peyton. Moreover, I had to stop by the department store to get some clothes for Thanksgiving."
"How much longer?"
"I'm a few blocks from the garage where I left the car for works. It'll take some time to settle accounts there before I get back. Could you cook dinner for four by the time I get back?"
"For two, you mean. Shawn is eating out with his soccer buddies after practice and Dad already ate dinner at the Church down town after his sermon."
"Just two? In that case, order some takeout. I think we have the menu for Dragon Palace in the kitchen drawer. Don't order too much."
"I won't, Mom. I think I know how to order some lame Thai food."
"I'll be back in an hour or so. Take care till then. Love you."
There was an exasperated sigh over the phone before the call dropped. Moira didn't break stride putting it back into her purse. It was getting dark and few of the streetlights lit her path. She was a block away from the garage when it happened.
The gunshot ripped through the air, scaring a flock of pigeons off the nearby railing. She stopped in her tracks. The few other pedestrians screamed in panic and took cover. Soon, all but her had scurried away. She stood with her heart thumping against her chest, paralysed with fear.
A gleaming black Escalade burst out of the entrance to the alley. It took a left turn before speeding off in the opposite direction. It was a good minute later that she found movement in her legs. She saw someone else peer into the alley and cry for help before she looked in herself.
Slumped against a stack of empty cardboard boxes at the far end of the alley was a man with blood seeping down from the bullet hole in his temple to his shirt.
"9-1-1. What's your emergency?"
* *
Living a dream, living a lie -- is there a difference?
Moira Malone looked fondly at her son putting the black and white soccer ball down on the ground. He carefully placed it above the penalty spot and took a few steps back. His team stood on the half-line, watching with bated breath. There was silence, drowned by his heart thumping against his ribs and blood pounding in his ears. He looked up and saw the opposing goal keeper shuffle on his line, hoping to induce a mistake.
He hoped in vain. Shawn Malone took three quick strides to the ball before unleashing a thunderous drive which slammed into the right goalpost before deflecting inwards. The entire frame shook momentarily as the ball settled into the net.
The little park erupted with joy. Shawn's team rushed over and drowned him in a mass of bodies and hugs. He struggled to extricate himself from the tangle of humanity before throwing his hands up in the air. A last-gasp equalizer followed by taking the winning penalty in the shootout -- his performance had Man of the Match written all over it.
Moira cheered and clapped while being congratulated by the other moms in her vicinity. Her eyes returned to the field where the hugging and back-slapping resumed with gusto. The team coach had made his way down to congratulate every member of the team personally on making it to the district level finals. The cheerleaders streamed onto the grass as well, intent on letting the team know how much they liked their performance.
She watched her son lock lips with his cheerleader squeeze, Tricia. They tongued hungrily in the middle of the field, seemingly oblivious to everybody else around them. Tricia let her lips wander on his face for a short time before engulfing his lips in another ravenous kiss. Shawn responded by holding her head in his hands and tilting her head for better access into her mouth. The animalistic frenzy of the kiss neatly segued into a tender, yet passionate moment between two high-school sweethearts very much in love.
Moira smiled, sighing deeply inside. She longed to feel those lips on her own -- Tricia's that is. From her vantage point, she could only imagine what those lips would feel like. So soft, so tender, so giving.
"You must be really proud of your son, Moira," said a middle-aged lady to her left.
"I am," she said in response, beaming. "I couldn't be happier."
The half empty bottle of Prozac carefully hidden in the console of her minivan begged to differ, but she said it anyway.
Living the dream or living a lie -- it was never a choice, never mutually exclusive.
Her mind drifted for a bit, brought back to reality by the bone-crushing strength of her triumphant son hugging her. She hugged him back and kissed him. To her chagrin, her senses couldn't find a trace of Tricia's essence on his cheek. Her nascent dream of inhaling her fresh aroma faded into a distant recess in her brain.
Where was that Prozac again?
* *
Shawn made his way into the minivan after the festivities had died down. Moira got in front and took the wheel. It was a short drive back to their home, one she had memorized over countless trips to and from Shawn's practices.