I never had much imagination. Never needed it. Fantasies about white picket fences, two kids and a dog never interested me. If I had fantasies at all, they revolved around nameless, faceless women, redheads usually, with legs for days. Maybe I was just too focused on my missing past to think about any kind of future.
Until her.
I watch her hanging out with her friends -- she's a bright, spirited young woman -- strengthened, not broken, by what was done to her. Like I'd like to be.
I watch her, and suddenly, I can see the future clearly -- not the nightmares and experiments of my past, but her, in my arms. Her hair tumbles in dark waves over her shoulders as I lay her back against the pillows, her platinum locks blending with the stark white of the sheets.
I've been back for six months, and every day I'm stuck with these fantasies. I used to spend my time fucking, fighting, and drinking beer.
Now, I work on my scoot and watch her with her boyfriend.
Yeah, she's not mine. Never will be if Gumbo has his way.
He's no good for her, though. All that Frenchified bullshit he talks, and that fast car and those cigarettes. He should be an asshole. I should be able to say, "Kid, this guy's bad for you. Steer clear of him and stick with me. I'll never hurt you."
But a couple of things have stopped me.
I've followed the bastard when he goes out in the middle of the night, hoping to catch him in the act with some bimbo he's keeping on the side. No dice. He ain't going out to pick up another honey. He's faithful, which is good, because I'd have to kill him if he wasn't, and bad, because, you know, I want to kill him anyway, and that would be a great reason.
He's the one who gets to touch her, hold her, wake up in the morning with her.
My knuckles itch at that last one. They haven't actually slept together yet -- she'd tell me, and even if she didn't, I'd know, I'd smell it on them -- but the thought of my girl with another man...
It makes me sick.
She still comes to me with the nightmares, and I have gotten to wake up with her after the real bad ones, but in everything else, I'm second choice.
The other reason I never say anything is because all the arguments I could make against him -- he's wild, he's an outlaw, he's too old for her, he'll break her heart when he leaves her -- go double for me. Except the leaving part. If she was mine, I'd never leave her.
Sometimes I like to think she's going out with him because he reminds her of me, and she's sort of working things out in the minors before she takes on the big leagues. And she's young, even if she's got me and Magneto in her head.
I want her to get some experience under her belt. Just not, you know, below-the-belt kind of experience. Which she's going to get with Romeo there, if he has his way. I can see it in the way he looks at her. He don't even care that there are other people around -- he stares at her with those crazy red eyes. They burn for her and he wants everyone to know it. Not like me. I have to hide the passion in my eyes, because I'm supposed to be her big brother. I'm supposed to be in love with Jean. Everyone except me and Jean thinks that.
And her eyes light up whenever she sees him. Sometimes, when I'm talking to her, I can see her attention wander when he walks into the room.
I think, if I really pushed, I could take her away from him. But that wouldn't be fair to her. If he's what she wants, I just have to learn to accept that.
But I've never been good at accepting fate, or whatever. Especially when it deals me a shit hand like this one.
I tested the new bike last night. It works great. I'm just going to pack my bag now, and take off -- just me and my new-found imagination, running again.
And I ain't coming back this time.
I walk to the door and it's déjà vu all over again. In my imagination, when I leave, she's always there with me, her body wrapped around mine as we ride off into the cool, early-morning light.
I hold my breath as she touches my arm. I'm not a praying man, but I think I'd give almost anything for her to ask me not to go. I'd stay if she asked this time.
But this time, she just smiles and says, "Be careful. Don't forget to write."
This is the woman I want to spend forever with, and all she wants from me are some words scratched out on paper. Fuck that.
I shrug. "Yeah." And I know I'll do it, because she asked, even though right now, my heart is in my shoes.
I kiss her hair, and I can smell her nervousness, but there are no tears, so I walk away.
The Cajun comes out as I'm getting the bike ready.
"I'll take care of her," he says.
I thought that was my job. That's the only thing that's given direction to my otherwise meaningless existence.
He holds out a hand and I stare at it for a minute like it's going to bite me or something, but then I shake it. I guess I can let him fill in for me.
As I ride away, I look back, and I swear I see her standing at the gate, and she's not smiling. She's sad to see me go.
But as time passes while I'm on the road, I begin to wonder, was it just my imagination, running away with me?
End
Just My Imagination - The Temptations
I look out my window watch her as she passes by
I say to myself I'm such a lucky guy
To have a girl like her is a dream come true
And of all the girls in New York she loves me true
It was just my imagination, once again
Running away with me
It was just my imagination
Running away with me
Soon we'll be married and raise a family
Two boys for you, what about two girls for me
I tell you I am just a fellow with a one track mind
Whatever it is I want baby I seek and I shall find
I'll tell ya
It was just my imagination, once again
Running away with me
It was just my imagination
Running away with me
Every night I hope and pray
"Dear lord, hear my plea
Don't ever let another take her love from me
Or I will surely die"
Her love is ecstasy
When her arms enfold me
I hear her tender rhapsody
But in reality, she doesn't even know... me
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg. This just came to me on the subway. And, if you can believe it, it's my 80th finished X-fic. That's right, folks, I've written 80 of these damned things. Scary, non?