you're gonna make me lonesome when you go

I saw him as I reached for a box of cereal. He was standing a few feet from me, reading the back of a packet of oatmeal like it was the great American novel or something. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all, I guess I should've figured this was a guy who was only half there, staring at the oatmeal in his hand, staring right through it, like it wasn't even there.

It's a dumbass thing to do, walking up to a strange man and making nice simply because he's probably prettier than you are. But there I was, walking right up to him and saying, “Excuse me.”

His eyes snapped to me real quick and it figured he'd have pretty eyes too. He was looking at me, like maybe he should've known me, but couldn't remember. Chance would be a fine thing.

“I just need to get... that,” I said, stumbling over my words and pointing to a box past his shoulder.

He gave me a smile that changed his whole face. Made me think he must have been a kind man, even though my mother told me there's no reason a handsome man can't be a bastard. In fact, it's usually the case.

Mother was a bitter bitter woman.

He handed me the box of hardcore oatmeal I sure as hell was not going to eat and was going dump in the next aisle the first chance I got. I took the box from him and smiled.

“Thank you.” He just smiled back, one corner of his mouth turned up. I kind of guessed he wasn't much of a talker and pointed to the oatmeal still in his hand. “Any good? I've been meaning to try it.”

He looked down at it and frowned before looking up and smiling to say, “I have no idea.”

“Oh,” I said. “Looking for something new?”

He was nodding, licking his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He put the oatmeal back and then turned his full attention to me. Finally. Then he held his hand out and said, “John Sheppard.”

Ferris wheels, college football and things that go really fast. Those were the things he said he loved. Mother would have said, Ferris wheels because every man likes to feel like he's at the top of the world with everyone else beneath him. College football because they never really grow up and things that go really fast? Well, there's just so much you can do with that.

“Things that go really fast?” I had teased. “You mean like me?”

He had smiled and then tried to look innocent. “Well, you're pretty quick.”

I was quick all right, but not quicker than him. He could change masks in the blink of an eye. I'd catch him with a look in his eyes, dark and sad, faraway from me. Then all of a sudden he could be John, soft, kind eyes and gentle smile.

I knew two men called John Sheppard and they were both a mystery.

That first time we met, we ended up drinking coffee in the middle of the afternoon. I told him about myself, my job and the parts of my life that wouldn't have him screaming away in horror. He listened and nodded the whole way through, asking me questions and it wasn't until we went to dinner a few nights later that I realised all I knew was his name and how many colours I had counted in his eyes.

I didn't pry. Didn't want to. I just wanted to know what that sad shadow around his smile was.

If ever there was a time I should have taken my mother's advice, it was when I met John. She always said I had a knack for falling in love with wounded animals. She wasn't far off from being right.

The first time we talked about John it involved him concentrating very hard on peeling the label off a beer bottle. Said he moved around a lot. Said he wasn't working, career move or something. Anything more than that made him scrunch up his face like I was electrocuting him.

So I smiled and said, “You don't have to tell me anything. I just want to know I'm not dating a serial killer.”

He tried to read my face and being human and all, I guess I couldn't hide that it wasn't a big deal. I wanted to know who he was, damn right I wanted to know. I wanted to know why his apartment hardly had any furniture, his stuff in boxes. How long did it take for someone to unpack anyway?

“Air Force,” he finally said, voice flat as his eyes. “I'm on leave.”

He looked like he was going to say something else, but it all went away with one deep breath.

“When are you going back?” I asked, feeling like I'd been duped into some summer fling.

Then he looked at me, his eyes on mine, and he had that lost look all over. “I'm not sure I am going back.”

“Oh,” I said, glad for it. “Okay.”

But he was sitting there like I'd tied him to the chair, like he wanted out of this kitchen, this thing we had, this state, country. Hell, off this planet even. I reached out to put my hand on his, wanting him to know he had me, he could talk, but he was up and walking away with, “I have to go. I'll call you.”

He called and talked around everything. Like we never talked about the Air Force or him being on leave. Like he never walked out looking as though someone had given him the death sentence. He came over and we had the quietest dinner two people can have without their mouths being taped shut. I called the night a bust as I stacked the dishwasher, only I could hear music playing, old Johnny Cash sounding sad about something.

I went to John's side where he was looking at the back of a vinyl cover. He looked up and smiled at me. “You like Johnny Cash?”

I shrugged. “I kind of inherited him from my folks.”

John nodded. “He's good.”

I asked him, “Did you know he was in the Air Force?”

John put the cover back, nodding slowly, back in hiding. “Yeah.”

“Did you know he hated the Air-”

I didn't know the man could move that fast, but he was right there, looking down at me, arm around my waist, one hand around mine and before I knew it, a smirk on those devious lips and I was holding on and we were dancing.

He had many flaws, but I loved the way he danced. I don't think he actually knew how to dance. He just stood there and held me and I closed my eyes and went with it, just swaying with him.

“Do you hate it too?” I whispered.

“No,” he said quietly. Then I felt a smiling mouth press a kiss to my shoulder. “But I don't think they like me very much.”

I couldn't imagine it. Not that night.

John didn't sleep well. He tossed and turned, clutched at the covers with hands by his side and sometimes spoke, harsh and urgent. The first few times it happened, he didn't wake, the nightmare just ebbing away. I told him in the morning after both times and he smiled, shook his head and said he didn't remember.

I didn't believe him. I knew he only showed me what he wanted me to see and I was never much for false bravado. I awoke one night and I sat there, watching him dream under the light of the moon. He was stuck in some terrible terrible place and I wondered how many of his waking hours he spent there too, locking me out.

I caught words, but they meant nothing to me, names of people I guessed I would never meet. Then he sat up so quick and hard it would hurt in the morning, no matter how much he pretended it didn't. I watched him, staring ahead of him, breathing hard, his bare skin looking ghostly white. His hand went to his chest, like he expected to find something there.

Seconds later, he drew up his legs and let his head fall forward tiredly, fingers raking through his always unruly hair.

More than anything, I wanted to ask him about his dreams, but he'd never say. He'd leave before he'd say. He'd look up from where he was sitting walled up on the bed, he'd look at me and he'd leave. Tomorrow he'd pretend it was nothing.

I got up from the armchair and I slipped off my robe, climbing under the covers, pressing against his side before kissing his shoulder. He looked up slowly, his eyes dark, something about him making me think of a caged animal. Still, I pushed his arm aside and reached for him, my arms closing around his shoulders. I kissed him, held in the circle of his arms, feeling the tremors subside from his body.

For some crazy reason, you look at a place, see how the man who lives there still keeps his life in boxes and it makes you sad. It should have told me John was never going to stay, but I couldn't see past this apartment that was so cold and empty, almost untouchable. He was in the shower and I was standing in there in the middle of the apartment, feeling as though I'd just walked into the home of someone that had died.

There were still boxes everywhere. Of course I wanted to look. How the hell was I supposed to find out who John Sheppard was? Even after the time we had spent together, he was as much of a mystery to me as that man in the supermarket aisle, looking like the loneliest soul I'd ever seen. I didn't even know if he liked that stupid oatmeal he was staring at, if it ever gave up the meaning of life.

I never looked in those boxes. Desperation and curiosity are different things. One might get you killed, but the other one'll drive you crazy. I'd rather be dead than crazy. I went back into the bedroom, into the full glare of the sun that shone through a bare window, lighting up the white walls.

The shower was still running and I debated joining John, not that he would ever object. I could see his smile as I thought about it. But instead, I fell back on the bed and closed my eyes, basking in the morning sun, stretching out until my hands slipped under the pillows.

There was something in John's pillow. Something hard and metal, clinking when I tapped it. I didn't think about why it might be there, why it might need to be there. I just picked up the pillow and shook it until something fell from the pillow case, hard and heavy on the floor.

His metal tags lay at my feet. I was unable to imagine John wearing them, in some kind of uniform and carrying guns. I didn't want to see him that way. What did he get for it? Sleepless nights and that god awful haunted look. Oh yeah, I was real angry on his behalf when I saw his name engraved on them.

Of course, then I saw the gold wedding band that had fallen a few inches further, so bright in under the light of an especially yellow sun.

I never even heard the shower turn off or John walk out, half dripping wet, towel around his waist.

I looked up and our eyes met. For a man who hid everything so well, he seemed to have trouble with guilt.

He was sitting at the kitchen table when I came out showered and changed. Black shirt and jeans, just like the day we met. Not that I thought it mattered.

The tags and ring were in front of him and he was staring at them with enough accusation that I was curious enough to stay and listen to what he said.

Only, he said, “I'm not going to make any excuses.”

I laughed. I really had to. “Of course not. If I leave, you've got a back up.”

“That what you think?” John laughed quietly to himself. “I'm not married.”

“You just like wedding rings,” I said. “Some people collect stamps, you collect-”

“Divorced,” he said, looking at the ring and then at me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Very, incredibly divorced.”

I sat down at the table and asked, “How long?”

John gave me an even look and replied, “Papers came through a few weeks ago.”

“A few... Is that why you left the Air Force?”

“Like I told you, they don't like me very much,” John said, giving his tags a glance.

“Poor baby,” I said flatly. “Air Force doesn't want you. Wife doesn't want you. You've got a real pity party going on there.”

John nodded, calm and cool as only John Sheppard could manage. “I guess I deserve that.”

“I don't know who the hell you are,” I said quietly.

John's smile looked tired and worn. He shrugged. “You could ask me.”

“What do I ask you?”

“Am I worth it,” he replied.

I looked at his hand wrapped around the wedding ring, hiding it from view. “Are you?”

“No,” he said, his voice a little thick. “You should probably cut your losses.”

“You know what I think?” I asked him.

“What?”

“I think we're both in love with people who don't want us.” And because I could feel a paper cut somewhere, starting to bleed out, I added, “Or deserve us.”

John opened his palm and the ring rolled out across the table, dropping inches from me. I looked up and miserably asked him, “That a proposal?”

We ended up in some bar, me being a real lady and telling John that, “I should've known you were a fucking asshole.”

John knocked back another drink and frowned at me before he smiled wide and shrugged. “You're right. How'd you miss something like that?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, hoping the hangover would be long enough to cover the heartache because... how could there not be any? My heart was playing Joni Mitchell just looking at him, ruffled hair and unshaven face.

“Why can't you go back?” I asked him, my lips beginning to feel a little detached. “Did they kick you out? Why'd they do that?”

“For being a fucking asshole,” John said, raising his fresh drink.

I covered his drink just as it reached his mouth. He ended up kissing my hand anyway. It figured booze would be the only way he'd get loose lips.

“Give me one thing, Major Sheppard. Just one thing,” I said, feeling foolish. “So I can at least pretend I knew you a little.”

John looked at me, eyes bright, mouth slightly parted and... I couldn't remember seeing this face before. I swallowed something down in my throat, guessing that this was the face John needed all those masks for.

“I disobeyed orders,” John slurred a little. “Someone got shot down and I went after him against orders. So... my career is pretty much over.”

“Did you save him?” I asked.

He smiled, like somewhere inside he was laughing at himself. Then he shook his head.

“So, they kicked you out,” I said with a nod, finishing off my drink. “Real classy people. I can see where you learned to be such an asshole.”

John shook his head tiredly. “They didn't kick me out. They re-assigned me.”

“And you don't want to go?” I asked.

John stilled, looking into his glass, all lost again. Then he looked at me and there was a flare of something in his eyes and I could have drunk the bar dry and remembered.

“I didn't do anything wrong,” he said quietly. “I didn't even... he would've done it for me.”

I laughed. Nothing is profound when you're drunk. “You think they care about hurting your feelings? They care about you being mad at them? These people send you out to die. Do you want to go back?”

John propped an elbow on the bar and rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “I don't know. Maybe.”

I snorted. “Well, make a choice. You can either spend you're life jerking around women you have no intention of have a meaningful relationship with or go back to being an asshole in uniform.”

John looked at me, pained. “I didn't mean to. I just wanted... I wanted to get on with my life.”

“I just wanted to get to know you,” I said, feeling the need for another drink. “But you always looked like you wanted to be somewhere else.” I waved the bar man over and pushed over my empty glass. “You still in love with her?”

John looked away, but not before his face spelt it out in ten foot letters that she was still very much loved by John Sheppard.

“Oh God,” I moaned. He looked at me and I threw my drink at him and waved the bar man over again. “You're an asshole.”

John sighed and pushed his empty glass next to mine, the bar man giving us a look before refilling. “You're probably right.”

I sighed and looked at him. Truth was, I wanted to keep him. I wanted him to want me the way I wanted him. Truth was, he probably wasn't an asshole. It just felt that way. I pushed my drink towards John instead of drinking.

“So,” I said quietly, “We should probably not see each other again ever.”

John gave me a drunken look. At least I hope that look was to with drink and not anything else. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” I said, slipping off the stool and reaching for my coat, ignoring the pit opening up in my stomach. “Well, goodbye. It was... well, you were there.”

John stepped off his stool. “I'll walk you home.”

“Walking? Not after I pickled my liver the way I did,” I said. “I'll get a taxi.”

“We'll share,” John insisted.

“I don't want to go with you!” I snapped. Then I said the dumb thing anyway. “You kind of broke my heart.” I took a deep breath and pointed towards the door. “Bye then.”

I turned away and walked out of the bar. I don't know if he watched me leave or got more stinking drunk. I don't know if he was sad, glad or mad about the whole thing. I was gone.

I didn't see John again. That was pretty much the end. I heard through someone that he'd moved away a few weeks later. Maybe he'd moved to a different city or state or maybe he fell through the bottom of the world. Whatever the case, I moved right on.

I missed him a little sometimes, like you do when something is gone. It's only human. So, there's no harm in being in a supermarket and staring at a pack of oatmeal, thinking about a man you once knew.

I stared at the stupid packet, wondering what the hell John had been thinking about that time. His wife? His job? The man he yelled out to in his dreams. Or if this brand of oatmeal tasted any good.

“Excuse me.”

I looked up to see a man standing front of me, shopping cart by his side. He was wearing ripped jeans and a black sweater over a white t-shirt, his hair dark and in fashionable control. I wondered if I knew him, but couldn't place him.

“Sorry, I just wanted to get at the boxes behind you,” he said, gesturing.

I looked behind at he boxes and stepped away. “Oh, sure.”

He looked a little embarrassed and picked up a box, smiling at me as he put it in his cart. Then he pointed at the oatmeal in my hand. “Any good?”

I looked at it and then I looked at him, remembering, and I felt like laughing, maybe crying or hiding. “I don't know,” I said, “I guess I was just looking for something new.”

- the end -