So: This Is It

"So: this is it."

My final words to Michelle rang in my ears for hours after. I left the house; what else could I do? I found myself stranded in a coffee shop, my laptop perched on my knees, and my coffee gripped in a hand that slackened and loosened, according to my bobbing level of agitation. I wanted to be at a bar; something about the sweet oblivion that comes with drinking past my limit.. something about that appealed very much; something about the crash the next morning, and the eventual return of my senses kept me from giving in to my dark urges. Something about suicide appealed; the dark tip in to infinite nothingness reached to comfort me in my imaginings. But, being a weaker man than society gives me credit, I stayed alive – I came here.

My cell phone chattered at me. Michelle's sweet singing after the 30 seconds of telling me, "No, no, Jon – I don't wanna sing; I sound silly.." pinched my face in bitter regret. I'll have to take that ringtone off. It's all off; it's all over. So: this is it. "I can see the raindrops in your eyes; will they be rainbows soon, or do I have to make them shine?" she croons. It was a song she wrote for a man before me. I adopted it as a song about me, feeling so connected to her when she sang it for me. She didn't have a beautiful voice; she could carry a tune, but just barely. She didn't have the range needed for this song, Moonlight Melody, it was called. She sang it with heart, and it was that heart that I adored. No: I lie. It wasn't just adoration. I fucking loved that woman. Loved. Dear god, that sounds so final.

So final.

Ah, but what is it that stopped it all? 'It' is the baby, the baby that isn't mine, nestled ever-so comfortably in Michelle's fertile womb. I'm sterile, so I know it can't be mine, even without Michelle's dry confession. The baby is to be named Stephen, after the hairy little prick she contracted it from. Stella, if it's a girl. I know this because the little Indian bastard was there to tell me himself. He interjected that, right around the time that I felt my heart explode. That fucking bastard. Stephen, a little restaurant owner; Michelle, the new waitress. How does this sort of thing come up? Him, with a little pot belly, and a wife back in the homeland. Her, with a husband who works a decent job, toils for hours, just for her. But, she doesn't care. Apparently he's got it where it counts, somewhere south of where I count. I was the one with the hands; I could have been a surgeon. And, she left that, for a little scrubby man with deep-set wrinkles, and an attitude that includes misogyny. What does she see in that?

I make it sound like I'm hopeless. I'm hopeless in that I'm alone, for the first time in 15 years. Used to be that 15 years was a joke; now it's a goddamn marker of miracles. Alone. Does it seem ridiculous for a grown man to weep over a breakup? Good. I don't care what you think; I'm sitting here in this café, thinking of the one who used to be my wife. Am I bitter? You'd better fucking bet on it, bucko.

I --

Who am I? Well, I'm Jon Kepps. And who is that? No one; I'm a dentist, not a rockstar. I've just moved my practice across town, after a disagreement with my building-partner. His name is Dennis Polsmith. He's a dirty sonovabitch. He kept ripping me off by stealing clients, convincing them we worked together, more like real partners. It doesn't work like that in the dentist world; my clients are mine. I don't get paid, if he keeps billing them as his. Ah, but this doesn't tell you much about me, does it?

Formal introduction time now: Jonathan Percy Kepps, aged 41. Born and raised in a shithole town. Left for good when I went to university. Took philosophy, hated it, and moved on to dentistry – and a different school – after the sudden confession from my best friend, Bill, that he was gay, and loved me. In retrospect, fleeing was an immature reaction. But, that's years past, and personas vanquished. In the face of years gone by, and of regrets, it is a big one of mine to know that I never respected Bill enough to shake his hand, and tell him, Thanks, but no thanks – let's go for coffee.


-- Let's go for coffee, talk it over? Jon – I still love you, but, I love Stevey, too.

'I love Stevey, too'. For fuck's sake, what were you thinking, Michelle? Michelle.. where did we go wrong? Was it the long hours? Was it the babies you could never have? We seemed so content, with our quiet little life. Or, is that a lie I'm telling myself now, all swept in my shuddery introspection? Is it all a quaint reflection, a split-image of our life that betrays me for the clueless motherfucker I am? Ah, fuck, Michelle…

The coffee is cold; so is my heart. I feel weighed down by this blank despair that fills me now. The email is waiting: it's my offer as a settlement for the pending divorce. The cursor blinks at me expectedly; it knows my unease. It knows my hesitancy. It knows what I really want to say to you. It knows what I want to do. It knows. It says nothing, like a caring friend, calmly pausing for me to gather my oncoming manic monologue. What I feel for you in this moment is a deadpan desire to take you down with me.

I feel a bottling of resentment bubbling in my throat. If not for my surroundings, I think I would scream out my burning frustration. If not for the butter-faced redhead sending me knowing glances, I think I would take this place down. She winks at me, with a tired smile, as if to say, "Hey, baby – I know you're tense; I got something that'll calm you down." I want to tell her, "Lady, I'd sooner put a shotgun under my chin than go where your nethers are formed." I don't. She keeps giving me half-hearted saucy glances. I turn my laptop to obscure her obscene come-ons. She takes a hint, and buggers off.

"Jon?" a little voice at the till inquires. I swivel in the seat to accommodate a response.

"Jenny," I say, a sad little smirk gracing my salty-streaked cheeks. "You'd never believe the day I'm having."

"Tell me about it," she says, exasperated. She smiles, too, a little ray of hope.

"Tell me all about it…"