Paul Pops the Question

“So, when are you going to go back on the market?” Paul asked. Max furled his arms in front of him and rested his pointed chin atop his wrist, giving Sam an expectant stare.

“You know, I’m gonna level with you, that waitress is pretty cute.” Sam quipped, nodding his head at a brunette making her way between the tables, precariously balancing two plates laden with mugs that were more bowl than cup. Towers of whipped cream teetered dangerously close to one another as she set them down, bending over in the process and giving everyone on their side of the room a view to die for.

“Want me to get her number?” Max said, oblivious to the overtones of sarcasm that dominated Sam’s initial remark.

“Real talk, its gonna be a while. It’ll be nice to relax for break and all but I just… I don’t know.” Though his voice didn’t waver as he said the words, as it had when he gave the initial account to Max and Paul over the phone, the silence that trailed Sam’s remark was one of wordless condolence.

“I know I’ve said this before, but it sucks dude. It won’t be the same for a while,” Paul began, weighing his next words carefully so that their impact would not be swept away in the tide of emotional numbness that was overtaking Sam on the matter, “But don’t let what she did say anything about you or who you are. Yeah, sure, she got mad about something that happened to you, but it was something out of your control and honestly, running around on you was clearly not the only choice she had.” The words were not of consolation but didactic. Paul’s carefully measured tone and the burnished almond of his eyes held a sagacious depth that put Sam’s turning stomach at ease. Though the respite lasted for only the briefest moment, it reaffirmed that he made the right choices with who he let into his inner circle.

As the three went their separate ways for the day, Sam took some time before walking to the bus stop. The snow fell around him in light flurries, nearly imperceptible against the stark sky of the same color. The wind whipped at his wavy hair, causing a tousle to flutter irritatingly in front of his left eye as he watched the windswept street bustle with students heading towards the parking garages or dorms for last minute packing. Silently he swept down the slush covered brick sidewalk towards his destination, drinking in every little detail from the burning in his nose from the cold to the conversation the girl trailing him was carrying on with her mother.

Slowly and quietly, he listed whatever phenomena first graced each of his senses. He could see the road ahead of him, the asphalt slick with a sheet of ice and slush. He could hear jingling of what sounded like an ankle in measured intervals marking the steps of its wearer. He could smell the **** haze of cigarette smoke emanating from a small alcove that lead to the Health Science building. Still, it did nothing to stop what he was feeling.

Paul was right. In the long run, whatever Esme did or said was simply just a relationship that could have been out of many that hopefully would be. Still, the stinging sensation of retroactive guilt nearly crippled Sam as he made his way up an arboreal incline to the bus stop. Wait. This was not guilt. This was something else. Something different. Something worse. Sam’s eyes darted this way and that, restarting the sensory ritual prescribed to him by his therapist, every fiber in his being trying to avert the on-coming panic attack. It was like fighting for air after surfacing from a sudden fall into a body water. Sam could feel his own mental inertia dragging him down into something that wasn’t the waking world as his pace involuntarily tripled. His steps were erratic and arrhythmic, his stride breaking and morphing from a precise, purpose-driven line into a nearly unreadable zigzag down the sidewalk as he careened this way and that trying to find somewhere to sit down. Knives had materialized in his joints, forcing Sam to stop abruptly. He cried out in pain, lurching forwards as his momentum teetered in the grey area before a fall. Sam had **** but to turn into a strange half-sprint sideways, catching himself panting on a potted plant.

“Dude, are you ok?” Came a concerned voice from behind him. Sam turned to face the girl; her almond shaped eyes full of concern. He must have looked like a mad man, doubled over a decorative plant meant to warn cars that this wasn’t a street, his eyes wide like a spooked cat. The fact that his only response was a pitiful series of dry-heaves akin to a cat passing a hairball probably didn’t help either. He held out a trembling hand and meekly gestured for her to go on ahead.

“I’m… Fine…” Sam finally choked out as he felt the stranglehold on his senses begin to recede. Usually the seizing occurred only after nightmares. It had never pounced on him on a regular day like this before, seemingly out of nowhere. Sam made a mental note to bring up this troubling development in his next session. Still shooting worried glances his way, the girl continued walking. As though fate wanted to reel back injury into insult, it soon became apparent that she too was heading to the C-line stop.