tiny fiction №1: like in the movies
2-years of friendship, 8-years of heartbreak, and something of her own
In a sea of personal essay’s, this will (almost) be my first time sharing fiction. My plans for this venture are small and contained (and somewhat experimental). The goal of it being: to have fun.
LIKE IN THE MOVIES
I try but I can’t stop looking out the window, eyes searching and searching and waiting for that familiar shape to appear on the small path that leads to the front door. For me to wipe off the remaining potato peels from my hands and welcome her into my home. As if today is just any other day.
With the vegetables chopped and the stock taken out of the freezer to thaw, I bring my shaking hands to the kettle, deciding that tea, yes tea, is the best thing to do while we wait. We, being myself and my dog, Bonnie.
I carry the steaming cup with both hands, and settle myself onto the kitchen stool. It’s elderberry tea, with a little bit of peppermint. ‘Soothes an anxious belly,’ the herbalist had said.
And now I’m here, with all of it. Waiting. Just waiting.
Albeit for the wind that pushes through the windows, rustling the pages of an open book and the leaves of a tired plant, the house is still. I pull the tea to my lips and wonder why more novels aren’t written, or movies made, about the kind of love found only through friendship.
To me, that has always been the deepest, most profound kind of love. The lasting kind, or so they said it would be. But that’s another thing that’s not talked about: what if it doesn’t last?
Emerging from a daydream that does nothing but stir my resentment, I notice that Bonnie is gone. It’s not unusual for her to run off, especially on a Spring evening with the door propped open, so I greedily turn my attention back to my tea and my anxious, swirling thoughts.
It wasn’t very dramatic you know, the reason why we are no longer friends. And if you were to ask me how it happened, I’m not sure I would be able to tell you, only that I forgot how to be myself, and that she wanted me to be somebody else. I do know that it was the kind of friendship that had you running and leaping and yelling, arms intertwined and heads turned up toward the sky, laughing and realizing that maybe we found it. Maybe we really are like how it is in the movies.
Tell me everything, I say. No, you first, she whispers back. And so I did. I told her everything.
But, the movie ended, and with it, the fog that had surrounded me like a honey-colored vignette: it was only 2-years, but it felt like a lifetime. It felt like we should have gotten our happily ever after. I adored her, and she loved me in her own kind of way. But now I think maybe I adored her a little too much, and that her kind of love wasn’t something I could just mold myself into.
But naturally, you hold on, because holding on is the only thing you know how to do. The only way you know how to feel.
Just stay here a little longer, it says, long enough to see them in the produce aisle at Trader Joes, smiling and waving as they push their kid (their kid!) through the hoards of people, over to me, where I will say that they look lovely (they do), and they will introduce me to their kid (who is also lovely), and I, somehow having forgotten that we haven’t been friends in 8-years, and that she broke my heart and that still my hands shake (still!), will ask her if she would like to come over for dinner on Tuesday.
Bonnie is no longer at my feet.
Having lost all sense of time, I come back to myself and the fading light and the sweet smell of freshly mowed grass, only to realize that she isn’t here, and suddenly, all I can think about is finding her.
I tear through the house, floors creaking in objection as rooms are turned upside down. Eventually, I find my way to the front step, legs flying underneath me as I push forward and forward, voice getting louder and louder. Bonnie! Bonnnniiiieeeeeee! Until—
She’s playfully running at my side. Of course she is, and of course I’m worrying for no reason. I always do.
With her head now burrowed into my thighs, I collapse over her warm, soft body, arms reaching and holding, just holding, as the blue sky gives way to pink streaks of cloud, painting our little world and the life we’ve made with the boldest and the richest of color.
We’re here, and what a wonderful thing it is to have a want for something more. Something different. Not at all like what’s found in the movies, but something you can touch and hold and trust. Something that breaks and mends and says I want you to be you as I will be me and that can be enough, even if that means letting go.
I go to grab my phone, only to realize I left it on the kitchen counter.
Bonnie, always a good ten steps ahead, tracks dirt inside as she makes a thud against the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, settling into what looks like a lengthy grooming session. I am quick to follow, grass squishing between my toes as my long strides taking me over the lopsided porch, and into the soft evening light of the kitchen.
Grabbing my phone off the counter with one quick swoop, my chest heaves up and down. There’s no time to catch my breath. I type and delete and type and delete, eventually hitting send: I’m so sorry, I hope you’re doing well, but I can’t do dinner tonight.
Bonnie is looking at me as I set my phone down and carve a path through the kitchen with my grass stained feet. Dinner for two? I chirp, doing my best to move alongside my anxiety by heating up the stock and sliding the vegetables into the simmering pot, unbothered as the splashes make their way onto my favorite dress. The one that’s baby blue and covered in daisies.
The one that maybe, one day, will no longer remind me of you.
The End.
How terrifying and fun that was! I felt I could tweak and edit forever, always looking to carve its edges into something rounder, softer. Something that can be read aloud without pause or confusion. But, no matter what, there will always be room for improvement, and hitting send felt like the bigger, more lasting accomplishment.
My hope is to share fiction once monthly, as well as my usual personal essay, which I aim to share twice monthly. As of right now, I do not offer paid subscriptions, but come March 24, 2024, I will be turning that option on as a way to further support freshly squeezed and the writing that happens here.
It means a great deal that you’re reading this.
Thank you thank you,
Chloe
Congratulations on your fiction launch! This was a brave and well-told story. Good start!
I love the realism in this. It could be a snippet of my own life. The magic in fiction is that it is reflected within through the common thread of imagination. Thank you for sharing, Chloe.