36

It was thirty-six yards from the front door to the mailbox out front. And it was the most important thirty-six yards of Nelson's day. He only enjoyed the steps out. The way to the mailbox was full of hope, promise. The way back was pure hell. Each step was another back.

When he could, Nelson would walk as leisurely as was possible, to enjoy what little freedom, dignity he still maintained. It was only during these moments when he felt dignified, autonomous, worthy.

He didn't know how or when it had happened, but he knew that it had happened. He was unsure if he was or not humiliated by that. In many respects he had become so insignificant he was immune to humiliation. But his insignificance was a personal humiliation. Once, Nelson had been noteworthy.

He had been a rebellious soul by his nature, never quite conforming to the norm, never quite fitting in. It was his oddness that made him charming; gave him his allure. He prided himself in that. In having unconventional allure. It was what made him feel alive.

Then it happened. They met. They dined. They walked. They talked

She changed him for the better. Or so it seemed at the time. He walked straighter; talked straighter; joked straighter; hoped straighter. She told him how to dress. She taught him how to dance. And dance he did. Oh Lord did he dance.

He experienced success, in the conventional sense. He experienced a social circle. He became more important. They experienced love, and K I S S I N G in a tree, and all that followed. And the years, well they did what years do. They moved on.

By the time Nelson saw what had happened it was too late. For better or worse, it had already happened.

It was a leisurely day. They were all leisurely days by then. His pace dictated so. Dressed in his day's outfit, a horizontally striped blue and white tee shirt, a pair of neatly pressed khaki's and a pair of loafers, he pushed his walker, step by slow painful step, down the driveway. Often it hurt. Sometimes the pain was terrible. But he never said a word. She would take this away from him, if he ever did.

For the last half of the walk, Nelson thought about Farmington the open space, the self-sufficiency, the simplicity. He wanted to invest there, spend a few months of their year there, but it was a bad idea. Their time was better spent in more culturally relevant places, places the Andersen's, the Jones', the Patel's, the Kim's, the Whoever's had visited and raved about. Europe, Asia, South America, Africa, they had

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

---

Add your voice

Know something about Short stories: Despair?
We want to hear your view. Write now!