Soul Mates
Kimberly Diaz
Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe
Word Count 926
I thought Frank was my soulmate. We were in our twenties, living in New Orleans. We lived all bohemian, hanging out in bars, dancing or drawing. We’d take our sketch pads to Molly’s, draw and drink Irish coffee. We were big fans of the Radiators band and went to hear them and dance at the Dream Palace every week. Breakfast before bed after a night out was another favorite tradition. We ate wee hour bacon and cheese omelets and ham and cheese quiche.
We scored amazing finds in thrift stores. A floor length black velvet dress and lacy blouses for me. Leather jackets, coats with tails or patches on the elbows for him.
I bought him a bottle of Crown Royal which came with a cute purple drawstring bag we could use to hold our charming wooden pipe. He called me Darlin’ and surprised me with pretty writing journals and buttons with funny sayings on them.
We experimented with acid, melting tabs on our tongues while giggling on streetcars and finding new meanings in everything we saw or heard. We were so compatible. Our relationship was practically perfect.
One afternoon, we dropped some acid and it got too hot. As we passed people on the streets, they looked like monsters to me, their faces melting. Back home, to calm me down, we got into bed and tried to sleep. After a while we made love and I felt like my old self again, but Frank’s mood turned melancholy. He told me how bad things were growing up, how poor they were, how his father had beaten him. He cried. I wasn’t used to seeing a man cry. It shocked and scared me. I needed him to be strong. For me.
I turned away, threw my legs over the side of the bed, reached down and grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor. As I slipped into them I realized they fit almost perfectly but were his jeans, not mine. I was a petite female and his jeans fit me. They were a little loose in waist but not much and the length was just about right too. I suddenly felt like I had no one to protect me.How could someone my size keep me safe from all the scary people and things in this world?
I’d always lived my life in fear. A psychic told me I died young in another life and that I had lots of angels around me. I believed they were looking out for me and helping me but that didn’t seem to be enough. I suddenly felt so vulnerable. I needed more earthbound security.
Like a switch was flipped, I turned cold toward him and soon afterward, moved out. I said I just wanted to be friends. I didn’t want to date him or sleep with him but I did invite him to our Halloween party.
I was having fun. I was dressed as a skeleton and went around asking everyone, “Does this costume make me look fat?”
He came as The Phantom of the Opera and didn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all. When the party finally ended, he’d had too much to drink and wouldn’t leave. I told him I was going upstairs to bed, that he could sleep on the couch. He followed me anyway and kept trying to hug me. I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just forget about me. I was annoyed that he wouldn’t just go away. I finally said he could sleep on the floor in my bedroom which he did using his arm for a pillow and his cape for a blanket.
After a while, my life in New Orleans went to shit. I got fired from my job and ran out of money. I moved back home to Miami. I screwed things up there too. I got pregnant and married a man with a violent temper who flew into terrible rages, beat me, and threatened to kill me. I had to leave him. It was hard being on my own with a young child and I was so lonely.
Sometimes I’d think of Frank, how content we’d been until that one weird day and I’d wonder what my life would have been like, if I’d not reacted in that way, hadn’t broken it off. I remembered his birthday every year and on one of them I decided to call him. I didn’t find a listing for him in New Orleans, but found one for the same unusual last name in California.
A woman answered the phone. If it was his wife, she might not appreciate me calling but I really wanted to talk to him. To tell him I was sorry. To see if we could be friends again.
“You’re looking for Frank?” she asked, sounding a little stunned. “You haven’t heard?”
I didn’t like the sound of that. I shivered.
“Heard what?”
“Frank died seven years ago.”
His sister explained – a motorcycle accident, he’d left behind a wife and a little girl.
After I hung up, I went to bed crying.
I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I kept whispering over and over again. I begged him to forgive me.
Suddenly there was a loud bang on the front door. I jumped up and ran to it.
“Who is it?”
No answer.
“Who is it?”
Still no answer.
I pulled back the curtain and peered out the window. All I saw was the welcome mat in front of the door. There wasn’t a living soul in sight.
Kimberly is a survivor of two marriages trying to stay sane in the crazy state of Florida. Her work has appeared in Another Chicago Magazine, Entropy, Montana Mouthful, Sunspot Literary, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and other lit mags, and anthologies. She’s currently working on an essay collection and a memoir.