Altar Call: Not Waiting.

 

I am here with your family and our friends. I came to marry you, and you did not come. You did not even call me to say why . . . why you could not . . . love me.

Maria . . . why?  Couldn’t you call?  Tell me you weren’t coming?

Heart Break Hotel?

Heart Break Hotel?

I am so angry I trusted you. Now I cannot trust my self — to know whether a woman loves me or not. That is a harsh, stinging thing to grasp, no? I thought I’d found a luminous pearl and dove deep for it. I grabbed a jellyfish: A gross hand-full of gelatinous shit.

You left me, brutally stung, in this closet of a city, on a fantasy stage of an island. Nothing here is big enough for me to hold. I’ve been planting seedlings all spring — tenderly too. I have been loving this isle for you Maria, for you. And now you decide to take off?

Did you leave with him, the professor? Is he the one I should confront?

I'm going down.  I'm heading out.

I’m going down. I’m heading out.

My mother is encouraging me to stay another week, in case you show up and want to talk. What is the chance of that?

Mom will fly home with my sister tomorrow morning. Father Jim has already left for the airport. I’m not the only one you’ve disappointed. And you and I (there’s no we) still have to pay the hotel for the wedding. Still in shock I was when your mother reminded me she wouldn’t be able to help with that. Of course not.

I’m going back to the apartment. The hotel manager here gave me the things you’d left in your room, including your journal. I may read it, but not for a while. I think the best thing would be for me to forget I met you six years ago, followed you to Puerto Rico, and was enough of a fool to think you actually wanted to marry me.   —Will Gray

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