Aerial

The Finale // Part Two

He does this, y'know.

He's not different.

Please be careful.

Don't you have amnesia, too.

Boggy.

No one can nail him down.

Wasn't he sweet on you for a hot minute?

Turns out it was just brain damage.

A complete mess.

Gunky.

I couldn't give it up to someone I'd have to face every day.

Could you imagine the fallout?

Torrential.

Yeah, a disaster.

Muck.

Primarily, the only phrases that squirm in your mind on your walk to work this morning are past cautions from your friends and coworkers, the very reverberations that would have kept you out of trouble if you'd listened to the landslide of outside advice and your own brain instead of your heart from the beginning. It doesn't matter now, of course, with a lollipop anxiously clicking against your teeth as you pry open the heavy door leading to the back entrance of the theatre at seven-thirty A.M. on Monday morning, the day of your final performance of the season.

The hope was to get here early enough, before Harry finishes with his routine daybreak surfing session, so that you can take the proper amount of time to unwind and prepare yourself for whatever may be coming your way today. Admittedly, you were half-expecting to see Harry waiting outside of your apartment but not surprised that he wasn't and yet, still saddened by it. Because now that each onion layer of your past life in Malibu slowly begins to peel away in front of your eyes, the more real it feels. And we all know how much chopping an onion can sting.

After Nettie returned from the beach yesterday afternoon, you could tell that she was walking on eggshells in regards to the things she chose to share with you. Both for your protection and for Harry's. It would seem that although her loyalty still lies heavily in your favor, that she now harbors quite an iceberg's worth for Harry as well, most of it hidden below the surface of the dark, secretive water. However, you did manage to weasel a few tidbits of information; that he remembers you, but not all of you. That he's extraordinarily rattled, that he received clearance from his doctor to perform, that although he loves you with every breath that moves in and out of his lungs, he's upset that you couldn't bring yourself to talk to him.

When you started to put on your shoes and chase after him, she warned you that it was no use. He was long gone for the evening, without a hint as to where he was heading.

When she shuffled the box of his items that you'd so carefully cleaned and packed away back into your apartment, she didn't need to explain to you that Harry had refused to take it. You could have guessed that yourself, before it even happened. You're only wishing that he had thought to bring your roller skates back so that you didn't have to walk to the theatre this morning, but that's selfish. You're selfish. And sometimes, when you break your priorities down and really think about them from all angles; from the view of the sea and the sky and the sand, you kind of wish you could kick yourself in the stomach. Maybe this is just the eye-opener you've been searching for, in a hundred different forms.

And you hate to admit it, but a big part of you wished that instead of that box of clothes and records and food, that she'd brought Sunny back with her instead. The Sunny who made love to you and stole you pink bunnies at Golden Pier. The Sunny who makes you laugh for the hell of it, the Sunny who makes you come for the thrill of it.