The Death of Trust and a Bottle of Wine

Seventh grade. The year before he hadn't even noticed women. There were girls he did homework with, sat in band class next to, or argued with about some stupid detail of class. But now, everywhere seemed to be teeming with them. Who were they, why did they smell so good, and why did he have a hard time talking when he was around them?

Third hour. Science. Amy sat across the aisle at another of the polished black tables with the metal spigots that allegedly spilled out gas when turned on. Allegedly. He'd never seen it. He'd been working up the courage to ask her out for weeks so, typical seventh grade style, he slid a note across to her. She read it, giggled, then said yes. They were officially "going out."

Fourth hour. Same day. History. Amy asks across the room, "So where are we gonna go out? Are you gonna pick me up on your bike?" He hadn't thought that far ahead. Seventh graders didn't have cars, so a bike would do he guessed, or they could just meet in between class to work out the details.

Ten minutes later. "Amy doesn't want to go out with you anymore. Sorry." He shrugs, gathers his books, and heads out of class as the bell rings. It was a stupid idea anyway.

* * *
He's the best man in the wedding. The bride is beautiful, the groom is nervous, and the best man? The best man feels like he's going to throw up, not from too much to drink, or because he's got a bad feeling about the marriage, just a bad feeling about the chili mac he'd had the night before. Oh yeah, it had been a bad one. Knocked him out on the floor of the bathroom in the movie theater after he'd emptied the contents of his stomach, chili mac and more, into the toilet.

Same best man, same best friend, years later. They're in business together, money starts disappearing from the account. The business ends. The beautiful bride is now bitter, the groom got groovy in other people's beds, and the only thing that bailed in time was the chili mac years earlier.

* * *
A parking garage, capitol city. Gotham sleeps, except for three friends, one of them hanging over the rails of the third floor of the garage, feeling fuzzy after the bottle of merlot and shots of rum, wondering how far of a fall to the floor below, and if he'd feel it. He guesses not. Same best man, stands at the edge of the railing, this side of the free fall into space, and a dam breaks. He hadn't even known it was there. Not again. Guard rails and dams and long falls to the rocks below. Losing more than he'd ever wanted to, he doesn't know if he can take another.

* * *
They're making out. She's breathing into him and he's breathing back. They're close, smiling, and he wonders if it's enough. He wonders if she's telling the truth when she says she's happy or if he is. His heart was left by the side of the road miles back and everyone's a potential suspect in its murder. Is she the seventh grade girl breaking his heart? The boy wander who spins tales until nothing seems real anymore? Is he free falling out over space, once again feeling fuzzy, waiting for the concrete to jar him back to reality? Nothing is as it seems. What's the motive? What is trust? Does it swim down deep in a bottle of wine to be dregged out slowly from the bottom? Innocence hitchhiked with Experience, and now they're miles away.