Sunset

SUNSET

BY FRED VENTURINI

Rick clutched the poem, crinkling the paper, hoping that by some
miracle Miss C would decide against collecting them. Before his hope
could fully register, he'd handed his poem to the front of the class,
where it was soon lost in a loose-leaf pile that she neatly stacked on
her lectern, preparing to read each one aloud.
She'd promised anonymity as a condition of the assignment, as no
self-respecting male in junior English class wanted to be known as
"sappy" or "pussified" by writing a quality poem. So Rick hoped the
poem was bad-it was the first he'd ever written, and he surprised
himself by completing the assignment. He hoped the poem would be
uttered and forgotten in the shuffle of her papers and the bored drone
of her voice, and then, he could relax, knowing he wouldn't be
relegated to being known as the "fag with the poem" during basketball
team bus rides.
He waited. Every time she shifted a finished poem to the back of her
stack, Rick froze, listening for the first words of his poem, hoping
the bell would ring and he wouldn't have to go through the internal
embarrassment of hearing it, or worse, the public embarrassment of
someone realizing the words were his.
Miss C cleared her throat. "The Nature of Peace, by anonymous." Rick
felt his innards burn, and he tried to act distracted, leafing through
a textbook as she read his words.
"I knew it once. One moment, a frame of time, portrait of blind-black
water as a pane of glass shimmering on the inside. A fraction of the
past, dangling like the grapes of Tantalus, haunting and perfect. A
flawless second, a glowing, porcelain hand cut from cloud caressing one
cheek, moist, parted petals of morning rose pressed on the other. My
heart burning-like irons in the fire, burning to a starlit glow."
She drew a deep breath which wobbled, revealing she was biting back a
tear.
"First kiss, last kiss. A haunting splinter in the mind-I knew peace
but once,
and never again."
Miss C was emotional to her very core, and the poem moved her-Rick was
proud of this, but alarmed because many of the eyes in the classroom
had moved towards him, the class prodigy, perhaps the only student
crazy and intelligent enough to put together words that sounded similar
to the accomplished work in the semester textbook.
Yet none of them accused, a week passed, and no rumors spread. Rick
figured they either respected the words enough not to make light of
them, or didn't care about them in the first place. Either way was fine
by him.
Miss C, or Miss Carter to her non-students, left a note on the poem in
her trademark, red-inked, John-Hancock sized cursive when Rick got the
poem back a week later: "Did you write this for Allison? Poems are only
as good as their inspiration, but I must say that your writing overall
is pretty good on its own merit. Keep up the good work, and I'll read
anything you may want to give me-and keep it private, of course.
C."
Rick smiled. He did write the poem for Allison in an attempt to sum up
what their first kiss felt like-it was fresh in his mind despite
occurring months earlier. Miss C's confidence in the quality of the
poem, along with Allison's affection for any compliment that Rick could
think up, made him consider sharing the work with Allison.
They'd dated for close to a year, and he wondered if all high-school
sweethearts shared their closeness. Bickering was rare-but it did
occur, accompanied by underpinnings of love and respect, yet they were
high-schoolers, destined for a tragic problem at some time or
another-Rick knew this, and saved "The Nature of Peace" for a time when
he may need it most-a time of turmoil. Above all else, he loved Allison
and the very thought of being without her seemed foreign.

* * *

The time came sooner than he expected. While Rick attended the National
Young Leader's Conference in Washington, D.C., Allison remained home in
Southern Illinois, bored and full of sexual tension-tension that she
decided to release with Justin, an arrogant, manipulative jock that she
used to date.
When Rick returned, he confronted her in her empty living room, yelling
and crying, feeling the seams of their perfect high-school union
bursting.
"What did I do Allison? That would make it easier to understand, if I
were the regular guy that treated you like garbage, but we both know
I've treated you like a princess! And Justin? When he's not busy
handing out wedgies or insults he's fucking everything that
moves!"
"You didn't do anything, ok?" she retorted. "You're f'ing perfect!
Justin and I used to go out, and things just happened, that's all.
Things happened. I wished they didn't. I care a lot about you, but it
happened. This doesn't have to be the end. You're still . . . who I
care most about. You have to believe that."
"And I do, but Allison, it is the end. For a while. The sun is setting
on us. Maybe it'll come up again sometime, but for now, that fucker's
set. I can't tolerate dating a girl that blew a guy while I was out in
Washington trying to get famous."
"Whatever," she said. "You just leave here knowing that I didn't want
this. I want you, and no one else, but I understand if you can't
believe that."
"I'm sorry Allison," he said, reaching into his pocket. "And you
deserve to have this back. It's yours anyway, a poem is only as good as
its inspiration, or so I've heard. Just so you don't get confused, it's
about a kiss. While you weren't the first girl that I've kissed, you
were the first girl that I ever loved, so kissing you was even better
than the first time-it was a first time in its own right. And just so
you know, before you decided to blow another guy, you were the last
girl I wanted to kiss too."
Rick threw the crinkled piece of paper on her living room floor and
stormed out the door. His sentiments reminded her of the first time
they made love. It was a virginal experience for the both of them, and
while she made it out to be a big deal, Rick didn't-he said the
important person isn't who you share your first time with, it's who you
share your last time with. Thinking of that moment, of those words, of
the sweetness she'd abused, Allison read the poem on the floor of her
living room and cried, her tears staining the paper, her regret
burning-not only for having a major lapse in judgment, but for not even
mentioning that she was sorry.
Rick, on the other hand, was hoping for a movie-moment. He wished she
would come running out the door or tapping at his window or calling him
late with sobs heavy in her voice, but she didn't. He figured that's
why they're called movie-moments instead of just moments.
He spent the next week wondering where he went wrong, and after some
council with his more-rowdy, less-nice friends, Rick learned that nice
guys finished last. After some careful thought, he decided they
finished third in a field of five, well ahead of the homeless people
and meth addicts, but behind the bad boys and super-good-looking
arrogant jocks, and Rick, who was an athlete, was far from
super-good-looking. Nice eyes and a genuine smile provided the only
oasis on his rather ragged face, which sported a gnarled scar on the
right side of his neck, caused by a high-impact car accident when he
was twelve years old.
Allison, on the other hand, was a perfect, traditional beauty. Her eyes
were as blue as his, but much bigger, and clear enough to offer an
ocean view to anyone fortunate enough to lock onto them. Rick was lucky
enough to make it past her eyes, and enjoy the soft, gentle touch of
her skin, the thickness and splendor of her long, golden hair, and to
kiss the lips that framed a heart-stopping smile.
The attraction between them persisted through the incident-once the
initial anger passed, they decided they could be friends, which led to
the second try as boyfriend and girlfriend a scant four months after
their initial breakup.
Rick never remembered being so happy-things weren't like the first
time, they were better. Conversation was as enriching as the sex-he
fell so deeply and purely in love with confidence that she her
affection was as intense. Both of them were aware of the poor track
record for high-school relationships, but innately, they each knew of
their mutual maturity beyond their high school years, as well as the
perfect bond between their personalities that supplanted their hot,
active, adolescent sex drives.

* * *

The bond would be tested, as Allison's mother got a promotion and a
move was necessary. No longer separated by two city blocks, they would
be separated by two hours. Confident that their relationship could
persevere, Rick helped with the move. Simultaneously, Rick's father was
diagnosed with stomach cancer. Rick watched the six-five, two-hundred
and fifty pound pillar of his family break down and cry as he reached
out to hug his only son.
The only thought that kept Rick from dwelling on the unfortunate turn
of events was the vision of knocking on Allison's door, and watching
her face light up when she saw him, showering him with kisses, locking
into a rib-squeezing embrace.
Rick's mind churned during his first two-hour drive to see Allison. He
was hoping things wouldn't feel different, as they'd been apart for a
week for the first time since the Washington "incident." Fearful of the
changes in his life, he needed her more than ever-and she lit up with
true happiness upon seeing him, spurning his love deeper.
That night, they admired the moonlight together from his Blazer.
Confident the moment was perfect, Rick reached into his pocket.
"I don't have a poem to give you Allison, but maybe this'll mean more
to you. It does to me." He opened his hand and produced a promise ring
with a generous diamond stud in the center.
Allison began to cry. Rick's heart sank, as he didn't recognize them as
tears of joy. He knew the next words from her mouth would hurt him.
"Because I love you, there's something I have to tell you. Just hear me
out, please . . . this week, a guy kissed me."
Rick's face felt singed, with blood flushing into the front of his
face, creating a buzzing sensation. He began striking the steering
wheel with passionate violence, and he joined her in tears.
"Fuck! Can we not go three or perhaps four consecutive months without
having a crying, yelling, Allison you-fucked-me-over session! I can't
take this. You live too far away to be with me all the time, and it
seems like every time I'm gone for a week you want to be with someone
else. I was wrong about you. I was wrong about us."
He snatched the ring back.
"He kissed me, Rick. I didn't kiss him. I was drunk and he kissed me,
and . . . you know how it goes! I'm being honest! It wasn't a real
kiss, I told him I was in love with a guy and-
"I can't trust you Allison. I can't be with you, but please, I need you
tomorrow. I don't want to go to the hospital alone. Our whole family is
hurting right now, and I need you there with me, if only as a friend.
I'm truly scared about tomorrow, but you keep me strong."
"Just take me to my grandmother's house."
"I'm telling you I need you Allison. I'm asking."
"You just broke up with me! I can't be with you, no way. Take me to my
grandmother's house, or I'll walk there."
"Fine. Make it into my fault for not 'understanding.' You're so full of
shit." Rick fired up the Blazer, biting back the urge to spew more
tears and screams, waiting instead to unleash them on the empty vehicle
once he dropped her off.
He barely slept, and never felt more depressed and alone driving to the
hospital, tempting himself with a death wish, but never fully
announcing it to himself.
The downward spiral continued at the hospital, where the news was
grave-his father's stomach cancer had metastasized, and was deemed
terminal. Tough to the very end, Rick's dad waved off chemotherapy, and
went home with his family to die in peace.

* * *

The aftershocks of his hospital visit and Allison break-up provided
more anguish. His friends picked him up to go fishing in an attempt to
cheer him up. Rick took the promise ring along, suggesting they make a
pit stop so he could rid himself of the ring at a pawn shop.
Instead of taking a left at the highway intersection towards the lake,
they turned right towards town-and directly into a cruel twist of fate
as they were struck by another truck that ran a stop sign. During the
second devastating accident of Rick's eighteen years, they flipped
three times, coming to rest in a deep ditch. Rick was thrown from the
truck, injuring his neck, destroying his dream of college athletics,
and ridding him of his promise ring, burying it in a grave of glass,
metal, and blood.
"Cursed," he whispered, broken and bleeding as the ambulance took him
away. "Cursed," was all he could say while still half-awake, and then,
he slipped into darkness.
"Look who's awake!" the nurse exclaimed six hours after the accident,
checking his pulse. "Just try and be still." Rick wiggled his toes,
relieved that he could feel them. "You've got a strong, bull of a neck
young man. You've got a damaged neck, but all the ligaments and muscles
are in tact and strong as ever. You're going to be fine in a few
weeks."
"But I'm going to be fragile, right?"
"That's for the doctors to decide."
"Will I be able to play sports again?"
"That's for the doctors to decide, but I seriously doubt you'll be able
to do anything that'll involve you getting hit."
"Like football."
"That's for the doctors to decide. You're very lucky to be walking,
that's a bad place to have a break, the C1. Right at the tip of your
spine."
"Lucky? If only you knew," he said with a sigh.
"Cursed . . . that's what you were saying all the way here, in your
sleep. I'm relieved to find out you know more than one word, young
man."
"Maybe I was right, though"
"Get some sleep."
She was gone, and Rick was left to concentrating on moving enough to
get out of the hospital, which he did two days later. He then
concentrated on visiting the hospital, where his friend was in critical
condition. In all, it was too much hospital for one year, plenty to
distract him from Allison. Then it was too much funeral home for one
year, as Rick buried his father and his aunt, which was enough to
distract him from Allison. Then college arrived. Soon enough, there
seemed to be no Allison at all.

* * *

Except, on late nights, every few weeks or so for four years, he
thought of her. When his senior year of high school turned to a senior
year of college and his current girlfriend didn't inspire him with the
passion that Allison had, he thought of her.
After receiving his degree in English and preparing for the creative
writing curriculum at Iowa University, Rick reflected on Allison and
the simple high-school love they shared. His mature, creative mind
insisted their bond wasn't simple high-school sweetheart syndrome. He
decided their love was vibrant and unique, and regretted his hot-headed
immaturity in high-school. After learning the joy of promiscuity in
college, Allison's sampling of a drunken kiss and an ex-boyfriend
blow-job didn't seem as high-impact as it once did.
He had thought about calling her or visiting her, perhaps testing his
theory on the pure nature of their young love, but wouldn't know who
she was with, where she might live . . . where to start.
Instead, he wrote, removing all his feelings and passions for her and
transplanting them onto paper so that he could feel normal until the
feelings rose once more, and then he wrote once more. His portfolio
contained enough quality for Iowa University, and looking back, Rick
noticed a trend-specifically, the inspirations behind his best
work.
Surprised and moved at this discovery, he wrote about their
relationship, which seemed to persist and thrive in his heart despite
their years apart, and submitted Sunset to the Sparrowgrass Poetry
Forum-and won. After cashing the check for two hundred dollars, Rick
decided that Miss C was right-and that Allison would inspire him for a
long, long time.

* * *

Another year passed. Rick continued his transplant of feelings onto
paper, excelling at Iowa. Fate twisted his way when, via an old high
school friend, he learned that Allison worked at a large hotel an hour
away from his former home in Southern Illinois. The temptation of
knowing he could finally see her overwhelmed him, so he visited home
with the solitary goal of seeing a girl that was more than a girl so
long ago-and remained more than a girl. She was the girl.
With trembling hands he walked through the glass doors of the hotel,
and was rocked by the sight of her-the eyes that seemed eternal grew
even larger when they recognized him, and the feelings that dwelled
inside of him, the ones that burned so hot he had to write them down,
flamed to new heights when she hugged him.
After the formalities of catching up were exhausted, including the
courtesy of asking about family and friends, about work, school, and
general interesting happenings during their lost years, Rick realized
their eyes had locked for the duration of the conversation, and when
she grabbed his arm in laugher, it electrified him, more than he
remembered. The conversation turned.
"That poem you wrote me . . . the one you threw down on my living room
floor, did I ever tell you how much I cried over that?" Allison
gleamed.
"No. You never even told me if you thought it was any good," he said,
laughing, recalling how shy he used to be about his work.
"I cried when you first gave it to me. I cry every time I read it. You
could barely see the print now; my tears have smudged up your
penciled-in chicken scratch so bad. I have to read it to my friends
because they can't decipher it, but I don't know if it's from my tears
or your crappy handwriting."
"I type now," Rick said, visibly touched. After a brief silence,
Allison touched his arm again.
"You know, I never said I was sorry. I am. If I could have it all back,
if I could just talk to that girl I used to be and tell her how great
you were, and how lonely things would be without you." She began to
choke up.
"Hey, I won't allow myself, or you for that matter, to cry. We only
cry when we're breaking up over stupid stuff, ok?"
Allison laughed again, sniffled, and collected herself.
"You're the boss, but it wasn't stupid stuff."
"Yeah, it was," he said. "We were teenagers. High school sweethearts
are usually attracted through sex drive. We were attracted on a deeper
level, but the sex drive is a powerful thing at that age-and you didn't
even have sex with another guy, it was just . . . you know what it was.
You know what it means now? Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. If I could go back, if I could talk to that kid, I'd tell
him not to react the way he did."
"That means a lot to me," she said.
Another long pause-their eyes gorged on each other, and then Rick's
turned to her hand.
"There's no easy way to bring this up," Rick said, afraid to look up
as he asked, "but is that an engagement ring?"
"Yes," she said, eyes filling once again.
"You know what ring should be on that finger I hope."
"Yes."
"I'm . . . . I . . . . uh, I think I need to leave, Allison. I'm
sorry. We should keep in touch though." He turned to leave, trying to
make it out the doors before a sob escaped from a place so deep it
shocked him to realize it existed.
"Rick," she yelled, running from behind her desk. He stopped, and she
took him in an embrace, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered familiar
words in his ear:
"I remember to this day, long after the night reached out with greedy
fingers and pulled us down. Time is an enemy. Darkness always, always
comes. Entrenched in Earth and cloud, heat faded. Passion smoldered.
Sunset came fast, and stayed. Years have passed. It stayed. A sliver of
what once peaked above the horizon . . . it remains and remains. And
remains. More years passed. Battling the night, battling the very
nature of time, the sliver cannot blind or burn-but it reminds. We were
lovers once . . . and always. Our sun will never set." She placed her
head on his shoulder, sobbing. "Our sun will never set, sweetie," she
whispered.
Everyone in the lobby was looking, but Rick noticed no one as he eased
her back to look at her, his eyes swollen, battling the emotions she'd
stirred within him through the use of his former pet name. He couldn't
think of a thing to say-his movie-moment had finally arrived.
"I looked all the time," she said. "I knew you'd be great. Bookstores,
the Internet, all the time. That particular poem . . . I don't remember
the first part, just that part. But I'll get it memorized, because I'll
read it all the time, cherish it forever. I promise."
Rick blinked, still unable to find the words even though finding words
was now his profession. "I really should go, Allison."
"I understand," she said.
"But I wish you happiness," he said, meaning it.
"Be happy, Rick," she replied, watching him leave.
He walked out of the hotel, his mind and soul blazing with emotion.
Thoughts turned to the lonely, depressed, and famous authors that once
filled his textbooks and now, filled his personal library. Sitting
behind the wheel of his new Land Rover, the engine dormant, the moon
smothering the windshield, he tasted the words that drove him, savoring
each syllable-"I love you, Allison."
Rick keyed the ignition, fighting the urge to speed home. His fingers
itched to write, his soul yearned for fulfillment. He lamented that he
could only satisfy one of them.