Gypsy's Crossing

Gypsy set her groceries down on the leather ottoman and kicked off her burgundy flats. A letter on the coffee table caught her attention. Her name was hand written on the envelope, off center and to the left, which summed up how she felt right then. Anticipation was doing her in for she felt she knew the contents of the letter before she’d open it. She looked through her mail and stacked magazines on the coffee table then fluffed the pillows on the sofa to take her mind off the reality of the letter. It sat there and she would catch its stark whiteness on the dark brown lacquered table. The contrast of light and dark, flashed like a beacon in the dimly lit room. She suddenly felt warm so she unlocked a nearby window, raised it and let the rain splash on her windowsill. The dark sky rolled over, then turned upside down as the rainfall continued. A rare event in Los Angeles for it hardly ever rains. L.A. is truly a desert flower blossoming from the nothingness that surrounds it. The storm takes the people on the street by surprise. It always does. They run to shelter to elude its rarity. The rainfall, smokes on the sour cracked pavement. The wind does not blow today, for it is not the season for wind so the rain won’t be disturbed. It falls unmolested. Gypsy takes a long look at her surroundings, which constantly evolve as the ticking of clocks continue. She takes in everything from the tracks of the Metro train to the neon signs of seduction that lure 18 and over connoisseurs of adult literature and sex toys to come hither and see. Gypsy thinks L.A. is bankrupt tri-fold socially, emotionally and morally. The city looks ill with its stucco ranch style houses that bleed and change color in the rain like a jogger’s sweatshirt. Los Angeles is an exercise in the eclectic with its liquor stores, snack shacks, and adult book shops that straddle the same corners as Catholic churches, Muslim Mosques and Kingdom Halls of Jehovah. Her spirit wanders, to more tranquil places she’s visited … Atlanta, Nashville, Charleston, New Orleans and other places down south. Gypsy was born and raised in Los Angeles but has always felt that she was a country girl at heart. She never had any love for California for that matter and frowns with disdain as she looks at the distant mountains. Los Angeles doesn’t even have any real weather changes. January is the same as May which is the same as December. The city only has used and infectious air from the mountains to the valleys that invades and coats your lungs with smog. Combinations of second hand smoke and industrial excrement that hovers, never descending nor ending in this oasis where ocean meets earth. But Gypsy loves the rain (even L.A. in the rain) for there was something therapeutic about falling rain. There’s something comforting in its rhythmic sound. One could get lost in it as they watched the way it fell and if they looked and listened to it long enough it could almost bring about change and wash away worry. Yeah almost but Gypsy’s troubles will not dissipate because of inclement weather. The cold rain dropped on her hands and she watched it run over her fingers for a few moments before returning to the uncertainty of her reality. To her left a spider was dodging raindrops as it scampered up its web to seek some form of shelter. She was deeply inhaling the scent of a world freshly drenched when a memory of her and her man making love during a thunderstorm came to her mind. It had happened in this very room. She had just returned from shopping when he pinned her to the door the moment she walked in. It was sudden and passionate and she could barely get out of her rain gear before he had removed her panties and was inside of her. A small sigh escapes her lips and a tear escaped her eye. Both betray her emotions like Judas as she sat down on the couch and grabbed the letter off the coffee table. She holds the envelope in her trembling hands and looks at it. Her fingers feel numb as she runs her tongue over her dry lips. She feels deer-footed; her stomach feels alive with sick turmoil, as if she’d swallowed live beetles. She looks at the letter as if it is alive and grotesque. Drawn on the back of it was the star and crescent moon of the Nation of Islam adjacent a pair of beautifully sketched eyes. They were her eyes. It was a feature of hers that he always complimented. Gypsy withdraws the letter from its envelope then withdrew into herself as she started to read the contents of it. Hey Gypsy: I tried practicing what I was going to say to you over and over but it just didn’t sound right. It sounded forced, fake and you deserve better than that. You deserve better than … me. I know that sounds like cop out and this letter cowardly but it is what it is. I guess getting to the point and starting the healing process is best and you need to know the truth. Seems like we’ve been living a lie. I just could not do this any more and regretfully we got to a bridge that neither of us really wanted to cross. Seems like we’ve grown apart, loss love and all those other things that couples do to bring them to this bridge. I don’t think either of us was ready for that level of change. Well I shouldn’t speak for you but I know that I wasn’t ready for it. I could insult you by making excuses but I won’t and I won’t ask to be your friend cuz I know that ain’t happening either. At least not right now. I realize you’ll probably need some time to work things out in your mind. Look, I just couldn’t jump with you baby girl. Not from this bridge and not over any brooms. As I said … I just wasn’t ready nor do I think we were ready for that as a couple. I apologize love for the pain I’ve brought you. Maybe in time forgiveness will come and the hurt/hate will go away. Peace & blessings. -Mazique- Gypsy placed the letter down on the coffee table then grabbed her groceries off the ottoman. She hadn’t noticed it at first but he had left his key to her place underneath the letter. It felt like no man she ever invested her heart in would act right. She was beginning to understand that she was destined to live alone, that her life was merely leftover time. She reflected briefly over all her past lovers who invaded her space, took up her time and basically weren’t worth the effort, but there was no love on this earth like Mazique’s. No man that has ever touched her heart, soul or her body like him. He knew just how to make her feel special with a soft touch or a kind word. Now he was gone. She let out a small sigh then padded across the swirled marbled floor and set her groceries on the gray marble island in the kitchen. She put the key in a drawer and shut it. ‘I don’t believe this’ she thought to herself as she put the groceries away. She looked down and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey Ice cream was in her hand. She took a spoon out of the dish rack then went back to the living room after putting the rest of her groceries away and sat on her rug in the middle of the floor. She let out another deep sigh for she realized that she has her mother’s habits and eats when she’s nervous, bored or emotionally challenged. Gypsy pried the lid off as a tear flees from the confines of her eyes then scraped the ice cream out and stuck the spoon in her mouth. She was three forth of the way finished with the pint of ice cream when the phone rang. She anxiously grabbed the phone hoping to hear his voice.