Interlude: fiction

So, I never write fiction on my blog. I wish I did; I know I should. I've decided to take a break from my series (Faith, Forgiveness, Redemption, Grace) to give you a work of fiction, inspired by a story I read in Zoetrope: All Story. Enjoy!

The conversation … if Caitlyn had the guts to call him.
By Lauren Sawyer

Hey I think we should talk.

Talk?

Yeah. About us.

Us? You mean … us?

Yes. Is that hard for you to understand?

No, I know what that usually means. But there is no us.

Well, there’s something. There’s me and there’s you and all the drama binds us together.

O … kay? Was that supposed to be poetry or something?

Jared, take me seriously.

Okay. Us. Tell me about us.

Well. See. I am mad at you.

You’re mad at me?

Yes, Jared, I’m mad at you.

For what?

I told you that I liked you.

And?

And … you didn’t say anything.

I did too say something.

You’re right.

I’m right?

You said “thanks.”

I did.

You are thankful that I like you?

Why, yes I am.

That’s a jerky thing to say.

Why? I was flattered.

Well, I’m glad I made you feel good about yourself.

[pause.]

Is there anything else about us you think I should know about?

[pause.]

JARED, YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!

Get what? And why are you yelling?

I like you. Or, I liked you. And you didn’t say anything. I mean, errrr, all you said was “thank you.” That’s not enough.

What did you want me to say?

I wanted you to tell me you like me.

But what if I don’t?

Then tell me you hate me!

Fine. I hate you.

Bastard.

You told me to say that!

I want you to like me.

This isn’t helping, Caitlyn.

[pause.]

So you really don’t like me?

Nope.

Not even a little bit?

Let’s just be friends.

Like … a tiny, eensy-weensy bit?

It’s not you, it’s me.

What if I was the only woman left in the entire world …

Then I’d bang you.

You’re disgusting.

You want honesty.

Can’t we just try dating?

I’m moving to Mexico.

So that’s why you don’t like me?

Cait-lyn.

[pause.]

Well. I guess that’s what I wanted to hear.

Really? That’s what you wanted to hear … that I don’t like you?

Well?

[pause.]

I love you, Caitlyn.

What?

I love you. I can’t live without you.

You can’t?

You’re all I think about when I wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. I want you to have my baby.

You’re mocking me.

I want us to grow old together in the suburbs. I could work in accounting, and you could stay home to raise our children.

Stop.

We’d live this pristine little life. I’d work my way up in the company; you’d keep yourself busy with your housewife hobbies. Knitting. Sewing. PTO.

Please.

We wouldn’t be happy, but we’d be content. It’s the American dream, after all. At least we’d die together.

Stop it! You think that’s what I want, Jared?

That’s what all women want.

Then you don’t really know me.

I never claimed I did.

I want to travel the world. I want to live in Paris and Moscow and London.

No, you don’t. You want your white picket fence, two-point-five children and stability.

I don’t! I want adventure! Intrigue! Chaos!

You want to get married to a stiff-shirted churchgoer who brings home the big bucks. You want a faithful husband who treats you like a princess.

No, I don’t. I want to live on the edge – never settle down.

Caitlyn, please.

That’s what you want too – I know it. You want to travel. You want adventure. I can share that with you.

That’s not what you want.

How do you know?

Because all women are the same.

Chauvinist.

I like to think of myself as realistic, thank you. I see the world as it is. You are just like all the other girls, and I can't afford to settle down.

Then you’re missing out.

On what?

Me.

[pause.]

So are you satisfied?

With what, Jared?

With me. Do I need to tell you I love you again?

Not if you don’t mean it.

I don’t.

[pause.]

You really don’t love me?

Cait-lyn.

What? I think you should love me. Is that so crazy?

Kind of.

Why kind of?

Because we hardly know each other. And you’re so much young—

Oh, don’t say it!

But you are, Caitlyn. Six years.

FIVE AND A HALF!

You’ll find someone.

Easy for you to say.

Someday.

When I’m old like you.

Yes. When you’re old like me.

Jared, please, you might regret this.

Why would I?

[pause.]

I guess I should hang up.

Yes.

You sure you don’t love me?

Positive.

Okay. Well, goodbye, Jared.

Goodbye.

Wait –

[click.]