245 Feet.
245 Feet. love- stories

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Falling from the San Fransisco bridge, Elle recalls a past lover

245 Feet.

I stared out over the city of San Francisco. The glittering city lights gleaming like stars against the night sky reflected off the San Francisco Bay, copying the image into a second blurred city.

I clambered over the edge of the red bridge and held onto the railing, leaning forward, feeling the weight of the world pushing me farther and farther over the edge. The wind blistered my lips, but nothing will ever sting like the last kiss she ever gave me. 

245 Feet. I took the step and began feeling the upward rush of wind, the salt from the bay cutting into my face. The paper-thin slices reminded me of the red-hot anger my mother yelled when she realized I was gay. I met her in this bar downtown later that night.

220 Feet. She introduced herself as Grace. Her eyes scintillated with the lights of the bar when I mentioned I wrote poetry. Of course, I wasn’t very good, but Grace always read my poetry and loved it.

200 Feet. Grace was a singer at that very same bar. She always hushed the room into a ghostly silence. The room was in awe, her voice like honey, and she ate up the attention. Always staying late to talk to reporters or fans. I had a tendency to go home before her, waiting until 3 or 4 a.m. for her to drunkenly stumble through the door, and kiss me with the breath of vodka and gin.

175 Feet. The sad smile crossed her face when I told her I got accepted to the Stanford Class of 1992. I was surprised myself. I had submitted some more experimental poetry instead of what their admissions office was looking for. She agreed to move across the country with me so I could attend college and Grace could move forward with her singing career.

125 Feet. She told me she was going on tour. 2 months without seeing her. I was sad, but of course, I wasn’t going to keep her. You couldn’t hold Grace back from anything. Of course, I trusted her. She would be living her dream, a west coast tour with crowds of kids cheering her on. Her last show was at home, and I promised to go.

100 Feet. She called me 2 weeks into the tour. A muffled, slurred clump of words about how she was drunk, and that she was led on. She slept with the drummer. A tall pretty blond. She slept with the drummer. I didn’t listen to her. I packed my things and left. 

50 Feet. I’ve been living on my friend's couch trying to find my own apartment, where the walls weren’t the green color of her eyes.

25 Feet. She never tried to call me. She never tried. Never.

0 Feet. Never.

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