Claire’s Ghost

In life there is resonance and dissonance—Claire and I are illustrations of this fugue.

We met at work and set up a teasing relationship that somehow became misconstrued—in her mind as mocking, and in my mind as need.

She fled from me as I gravitated to her and we destroyed each other through mutual fears.

Now the pain of love is greater than the time we spent together and I’m condemned to storms and drizzly walks—and she to being with her friends when she really desires me.

At least, that’s my version of our non-love affair and my explanation of how I came to be haunted by a living ghost.

“The gang’s getting together after work Friday at Sweetwater’s—Can you be there?”

Marla’s my unofficial social convener and I suspect more, but although I sense an agenda, I’m in love with another—a fact she’d never guess and I’d never admit—so we’re stuck in a revolving door.

“Friday? I’m not sure. Who’s going to be there?”

“C’mon, Liam, do you need a guest list? The usual regulars—Carla, Frank, Lacey, Tom, Lainey and Claire.”

My heart leaps when I hear her name and I hate myself for wanting just another glimpse of her, another few stolen moments.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” I say—off-handedly, as if I don’t care.

I hang up the phone and stare out the window at the night rain. Every lightning flash is a glimpse of her face, every raindrop a memory of her tears.

I was so foolish and immature.

Claire liked me. We worked together teaching Literature—she Modern Poetry, and I Victorian novels. We’d meet and chat over coffee.

Those were halcyon days when our sails were full of summer trades and we drifted effortlessly through daily routines. Life was easier because she was there.

I don’t know when we began to be self-conscious and almost out of spite, tease the other in witty repartee, to prove our cleverness or cover insecurity.

Then one night, at The Black Hart, having one drink too many, I pushed the joke too far—implying she was no raving beauty, when in fact I knew she was.

She refused to talk to me, avoided the faculty lounge and by the end of semester announced she had taken a position at another college.

I was devastated but unable to reconcile with her. I guess I was frozen with fright.

Fortunately though, she maintained her connection with the other staff and was a regular invitee to our Friday Weekly Wind Downs.

And now, here’s where we are—politely formal, but distant as the spaces between stars.

I’m doomed forever to stand apart, forlornly gazing at her light, but unable to traverse the gulf separating us.

And in the end, it probably serves me right.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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