Eleven

We had our last game the next day, against France. We finally won, seven to one. You’d think it would be a big achievement. You’d think we’d be proud.

Well, I wasn’t. I was deadened, desensitized. Just skates rolling around the arena, playing for about seventeen non-excited, non-cheering fans. It was damn depressing.

I had switched my flight home from that evening to that afternoon, wound up early at the airport, and found an alcove to sit in and read. I was drained, unbelievably tired. I wanted to go home. I wanted to BE home. I wanted to be through with this ordeal.

My watch continued to tick, unaffected by my misery. I got up. Walked around. Stretched my legs. Read some more of my book. Waited. Listened to my watch. Got a drink of water.

Then he showed up. I don’t remember much about it, but I do know that I was reading my book and then he was standing in front of me, wearing a leather jacket, looking apologetic.

My mind raced. Half was telling me this was what I had wanted; I would have killed for this two weeks ago. All at once I couldn’t breathe, or blink, my heart was palpitating and my head was spinning, his jacket smelling like leather and him, he was that close, and he started to speak.

And it all stopped short. His face appeared with amazing clarity, the face I had idolized. Known. For so long. And now he was just a man. Standing there.

“Listen, Miro,” he said slowly. “I want to apologize…I’m not sure why, but I feel like something I’ve done is wrong. I don’t know why, or what, or how. But I’m sorry.”

Something inside me shattered into a million glinting pieces of glass, stabbing, hurting me until I bled. And then it began to rotate, whirling around and around.

“It’s—not—your—fault,” I eked out. My voice tightened into my throat and I reverted into Slovakian. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lean on his shoulder and sob until I couldn’t anymore, until the sharp smell of the leather had faded and the jacket was wet through with tears. I wanted to finish with this. I was afraid for him and myself.

The spinning thing inside of me had accelerated to fever pace, spinning round like the earth gone mad, like a carousel on steroids, like a windmill in a hurricane.

Before I knew it he had left, striding away, still in his leather jacket, ignoring me. I imagined that I could almost see the muscles in his back rippling under his coat, and then he disappeared into the crowd of people. The leather scent had already dissipated from the air. I watched him for a few moments, and then he was gone.

It was everything. It was four years of suspense, built to last for ages and broken in two weeks. It was every drop of tension, every word I’d spoken about him, everything I’d thought about him, every picture I’d found of him, every moment I’d devoted to thinking of him, every problem I’d thrust on someone else. It was having a naïve, childish notion and building it into a playtime empire of which I was the king.

I had deluded myself. I had deluded myself. And now I had broken myself, shattered things hurting and things spinning and things whirling. Hearts moving and bleeding, people crying and sobbing and hitting, all on my behalf.

I suddenly thought of Marian. All he had done. The few days I had known him, and how totally, how completely he had tried to help me. And I hurt him. Ignored him. Delved into the ruins of my empire to sulk, blatantly disregarding all he had tried to do. How selfish I had been. How immature. How self-absorbed. How could I have done that?

I counted off my sins on my fingers, and ran out. This was my life, with more cruelties than fingers, more defeats than victories.

More. And less. Fewer. And most. What was the difference any more? What was the point?

I slid into a daze, only coming out when I finally heard the last boarding call for my flight. By some miracle, I was able to run for the plane and catch it on time. Plane ride home. Finding my car, navigating traffic, pulling into my driveway.

Once I walked into my house, I went through the kitchen on the way to the liquor cabinet. After downing three or four shots of something strong, I calmly took the Ziggy calendar from the wall. I calmly walked over and calmly put it in the fireplace. I calmly strolled about the house, taking down every piece of Ziggy paraphernalia I could find, and calmly pitched them all into the fireplace. I calmly lit a match.

Obviously, the paper caught first, shriveling into gray ashes. A particularly good picture caught my eye, and Ziggy’s face appeared edged in flame for a moment before it collapsed in on itself and became another soulless piece of ash.

The other things smoldered before catching, especially the game-worn jersey that I had given a place of honor in my bedroom. When it finally began to burn, it gave off noxious fumes and thick clouds of heavy black smoke, and I choked as I opened the windows.

Eventually the items burned themselves out, and nothing but clean air filled the room. I sat there in the dark, nursing my sixth or seventh drink and breathing clean air, and I knew.

I knew that I would not let myself fall into that trap again. I would not love anyone, ever again. Even if it killed me.

Maybe it would. But I would take that chance. I would take it because it was worth feeling clean. It was worth feeling sensible. It was worth going to bed that night feeling alive for the first time in four years.

THE END.

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