It was in this diner that I died a minor death. What better place than a dirty poor lit roadside diner in the middle of nowhere to fall to one's proverbial knees and crumble like a broken cookie.

It was sitting in the far booth, the nearest the back exit, the one with the best view of all the people sitting and eating or drinking their coffee, that I saw reality. For being such a dirty, lonesome diner, their were a lot of people, and surprisingly enough, they were all clean, healthy looking people, with enough attractive members to keep the eye interested.

I couldn't keep myself from the faces of a handful of women. Their features were such that my mind could not leave the idea alone, the question that has haunted me for days, everywhere I go, what would it be like to steal just one kiss from their lips.

I had been, and still am, a very faithful man. My girlfriend back home is the sweetest thing, but somehow I was still faced with this question. It seems so very harmless, but I cannot grasp the complexity of its depth. I know its a river that runs course so very deep within me, so deep it makes my blood run cold when it leaks to the surface.

I've never been one to think lustful or dirty thoughts of pretty strangers. I've always admired beauty, but with a certain distinction that it is something I must not pursue. And now, here, I am faced with the dilemma of my own infidelity. Is it so wrong? Are one's lips so sacred that they cannot be shared freely? Am I wrong in imagining one longful kiss on the mouth of a stranger, a fleeting glance upon leaving. I cast myself into a pit of my own troubles, a boiling surge of self-inflicted pain. Is it torture? Is it wrong of me?

I even wonder what my girlfriends lips are really like. I've never paid enough attention to remember. It's funny the things that are taken for granted. Now, hundreds of miles away from the one love I had, alone for what very well could be forever, I wonder what Caroline is thinking at this exact moment. What are the very thoughts circling so silently in her mind? Or is she even thinking, it now being 2 in the morning, the dust finally settling in southern Arizona. Or worst of all, has she forgotten about me and is now entwined the sultry arms of a lover, moaning in ecstasy while I hang my head, staring into the hot roasted liquid in the mug in front of me.

Oh, why did I ever let her slip away? Why did I allow us to grow apart? How could I do such a thing to the woman I loved so dearly, yet took for granted so many times. The thought never occurred to me that she would ever consider leaving. Things were so perfect. We had a pleasant existence planned out. Everything was going to be perfect.

Now I sit, shattered, alone in some grungy all night diner, surrounded by women who's only asset to me is their lips, the thought of passing along a lost love.

This is the part of the movie, if it were such, where I am seen not moving a muscle, while my coffee cools, and a haunting piano and violin duet play quietly, almost like the rustling leaves that could be heard outside if I only took the effort to stand up and walk to the exit, thrust open the door, look to the sky and shout my existence to the heavens. But such rash living is no longer a part of me. I no longer contain the will to be truly alive. The things she never said have crushed my spirit. I could live and die all at once here in this restaurant. Everyone around me could be dead or dying for all I care and know. The only thing alive is my love for another, a love no longer returned.

I could write her a letter, I could send her a postcard, but how will I know she will read it? How can I guarantee that it will get through to her? I don't see guarantees like that just lying around. These things aren't easy, I know. A telephone is a dozen steps away, but I have no change to spare. Maybe I don't have an ounce of my life to spare to reconnect that which has been severed.

BUT HOW CAN I SIT HERE AND COMPLAIN AND BEMOAN ABOUT SOMETHING WHICH I CAN CHANGE, YET STILL DO NOT?! I am but a fool. A two faced, weak minded fool. I would ask you to forgive me, but even that would mean nothing. I must leave again. All these strangers warm lips but uninviting eyes will be the death of me. I lack passion, they own the key to my salvation, yet I am certain they will not divulge. The pain, yes, the pain inside me is too great for me to continue here. I must leave.

© J. Bernhard

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