We Were Late To Our Own Lives

We were late to our own lives; we spent years floating, wandering, repressing.

Melanie was never fond of public speaking, but on her wedding day, her delicate fingers that donned her eloquent French manicure, gripped the microphone, steady and sure.

He told me he wanted to be with me when we were 16. We were driving by the beach after he got his license and he said, 'let’s run away and get married.'

I scoffed at his response, of course. We were too young. Too broken. Marriage was just not the answer.

Hurting him like that, it was the saddest night of my life.

Tears formulate in Melanie’s eyes that are not a sky blue but a piercing blue; she could practically taste his cold lips after they both deemed it all over.

I didn’t date for a real long while, she continues. My friend set me up with Jonathan, an accountant at her firm. I was waitressing and attending classes part time.

Jonathan was great; he was polite and complimentary and brought home sesame bagels every Sunday morning from that shop on Deer Park Ave. But. Somewhere. Just somewhere in a tiny back room of my mind, I knew Jonathan was a mere chapter in my story.

I didn’t know how or when, but I knew that Toby had more pages to fill.

She looks out, at friends and family, loved ones, captivated by her monologue. Toby stares at his silverware. He does not like to cry in front of others.

We were late to our own lives, she echoes again. But better late than never.

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