The Cure--a short story.

Let’s pretend that there’s a cure for this thing that fanatics like myself like to obsess about. 

You’re sitting there in front of me, wishing that I could read your mind, begging that I could read the signs, and hoping to god that I won’t say anything about you-know-what. Your coffee is getting cold (but I, of course, prefer a hot cup of green tea with a dash of milk and two shots of sugar) and you are still be waiting. Cracking your knuckles. Tapping the table, the table legs, the frayed material of the booth beneath you. 




It’s all the same because really, we’re both waiting for me to say something. And though I believe that there’s a slight possibility that the cure is hidden somewhere in the unused spaces of the human mind, there is a cure. Think about it: how can there be a problem without a solution? Would a problem be a problem, if somewhere in the world there was absolutely no solution? And you said that this was a problem—you said that there is always a problem here, between you and me. 

Let’s pretend that the biggest recesses of our hearts are like little incubators of problems waiting to be resolved. Let’s stick with that—how about it? Instead of sitting so smugly, waiting for me to concede that, Yes, you have a point, there, why don’t you tell me how to solve this? Where, when, and how I can find this cure—and why we even need it. 




Patience is a virtue, I remind you as I ignore my cold drink. It’s easy for you to sit there waiting for answers, I say, like always. We have a problem, I add, and it’s not all me. 

You smile, list all the reasons why you always made me find the cure, and then take a sip of your drink. 

The cure, I say nonchalantly, though my insides are roiling with disgust towards you and the fly that keeps flying too close to your drink every time you’re not looking, is to just give in to what’s happening. We fight, we make up. It’s a continuous cycle. 

Fight. Make-up. Fight. Make-up.

Only this time, I conclude, we’re staying in the fighting mode. 

That’s your cure? You ask, taking another sip of your drink, the fly buzzing distractedly around your head.

Yes. It is.

What is the cure for a relationship that is meant to end, even if you don’t think it will? You want to go against your gut instinct, the idea that maybe you might be alone for another couple of years before you settle down into a modicum of normality by marrying someone who somewhat completes you. 

To cure unnecessary heart breaks, you avoid impatience. 

I take a sip of the cold drink, its texture sliding down my throat, chilling my arms, and waking me up.   

The End

0 comments about this story Feed