FICTION

Love’s Ransom

Sometimes letting go and rebuilding is all that you can do

Deplaning was easy, but the flight from Mars Station had been bumpy. My stomach still churned.

I enjoyed the walk to the gallery. I ignored the crowds and letting my stomach settle. My mind wandered to the last time we were there together.

We loved the art gallery. It was filled with beauty and joy and sadness and love and emotions—all of the feelings. Darla loved ancient landscapes filled with birds, trees, streams. I preferred family portraits, together for eternity, happy, at least there.

Nothing lasts forever, not even memories—especially the happy ones.

We met as undergraduates at the then-new University of Mars. “Go Gophers!!!” as they still say. I studied terraforming, and she studied Greek literature. As it turns out, she was my Aphrodite. Unfortunately, I was her Hephaistos, literally and figuratively, and our union — doomed from the start.

She was there, her beauty shining like always, admiring “The Garden of Earthly Delights.” She loved Hieronymus Bosch. This painting always left her wanting more. It was especially magical when we viewed the original in Madrid.

I still remember Madrid like it was yesterday. That was a lovely trip. A perfect honeymoon. Too bad the honeymoon never lasts.

Her long, blonde hair — curled, coifed, and styled — reminded me of the iconic Farrah Fawcett poster from the 20th or 21st century.

Her eyes. Her eyes, to be tres cliche, were like deep, limid pools. You can get lost in them for an eternity.

She had just the right amount of filler; her lips gave her the sultry, pouty look that everybody falls head over heels for.

Her nails were long, pointed, and immaculately manicured — frosted French Tip.

She was, as she has always been, perfection from the outside.

It was just when she knew you that her nails turned to talons; her hair into whips; her eyes into tidal waves to drown you; her lips parting to reveal row upon row of fangs to devour you and a tongue that would splay your soul open over and over again.

I walked over; without a word, I handed her our divorce papers; she returned my package.

Despite waiting years for this moment, I wasn't sure that I was ready for this.

The finality.

The end.

Emotions began to overwhelm me.

I mumbled my goodbyes and headed towards the exit. When I was safely out of sight, I stopped to compose myself. It was over.

I walked outside into the sunlight. Walking to the park beside the gallery, I found a secluded bench and table, perfect for examining and maybe unwrapping the package.

Staring at the package, I wasn’t sure what to do.

Do I throw it in the nearest compost bin? After all, everything is biodegradable here. No waste allowed.

Should I take it home and put it away for when I’m stronger?

Opening it seems to be the only impossible choice that I have here.

Impossible.

Improbably.

Unlikely.

Not now. Not today. Not after just seeing Darla. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t bear it.

I reached inside my jacket and took out my trusty flask of Jamesons. A swig of whisky always helped me at times like this. Maybe a cigarette, too. Out of habit, I fished for my pack, forgetting that Darla had helped me quit. So, it was only to be whisky. That was fine with me.

I opened the flask, look around furtively, like a guilty man who’d never drunk in public before, and took a long swallow. The fire burned down, like it was supposed to, and lit a fire in my belly. I hadn't felt fire down there in many years. It was surprising but not unwelcome.

The fire in my belly slowly warmed the rest of my body, taking a long time to reach my brain. I took another swallow — a good one, a man’s swallow — to make sure the fire stays burning.

The package was only sitting there, doing nothing, yet I felt what’s inside it speaking to me—calling my name—shaping my destiny, as it always has.

It had to be done. The box needed to be opened. And I knew the place — the cafe where it had all begun so many years ago.

Should I hail an Uber or walk?

I walked from the park, down the lonely streets, still full of people, and down one small, lonely alley to find the Love Cafe. To my surprise, it was still there and had just opened for the evening crowd. They even had a booth available for me.

I went to the barista and ordered what was my usual wherever they served decent coffee, a flat white with an extra shot.

I took it back to the booth and sat. I slowly drank the coffee, enjoying the silkiness of the steamed milk, the tickling of the small layer of foam, and the bitter kick of the espresso.

After finishing the coffee, I went back up to the counter. I ordered a long Americano with an extra shot because it would be a long evening, and the Americano would more easily hold the Irish than the little flat white. I quickly supercharged my coffee from my flask and took a drink.

I took the package off the seat and placed it directly in front of me. There was a bow on the top, so I at least knew which side was up. Nervously fidgeting, I turned the package around and around, examining it from all sides.

My gut wanted me to run, then and there. Get up, leave the table, leave the package; run for my life.

Nothing good could come of anything she had touched.

I felt like screaming.

My brain eventually took charge and calmed me down; it made me stay; it made me face my fears.

Finally, after adequate caffeine and whisky encouragement, I decided that enough was enough.

I gingerly opened the package. The lid popped open, nearly scaring me to death. A faint glow came from inside.

I looked inside the package sadly and slowly shook my head. With great deliberation, I examined the contents of the box, one piece at a time. It became apparent, after time, that this is an unassembled 3D model of something. Of something, but what I wasn’t sure. The pieces faintly glowed but made neither sound nor motion.

I took each piece, one by one, and examined them, trying to see how they fit together.

Eventually, after several more souped-up Americanos, the pieces seem to start to pull themselves together, as if it knew how it was supposed to be.

Piece by piece, the puzzle started to take shape. The glow began to grow stronger.

Coffee, whisky, and the magic of the puzzle all coming together to solve the mystery.

It mesmerized me.

The puzzle’s glow continued to increase, but nobody else in the cafe seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Alone with the puzzle, all the pieces magically came together.

I finished, finally. The puzzle’s all together. Not as bright and shiny and new as the day that I gave it to her, but it was complete.

The puzzle shone bright red. It was a little tattered and not new, but it was whole. At least complete enough for me.

I looked at the puzzle for what seems like an eternity, basting in its glow.

It slowly began to pulse, and I knew that we were ready.

Placing it back inside the package, I then collected the numerous cups that had held all of the coffees necessary to help me through this rebuilding. They were swiftly deposited in the composting bin, as instructed.

I walked into the nearest rest station with my precious package. Looking into the mirror, I could almost see a new man. The old, broken man was still there, but there was a glimmer of hope somewhere in my eyes.

The shadow of the man I once was glowed more strongly than it had in years.

I set the package and its contents down on the vanity next to the sink.

I slowly took off my jacket and hung it up on a hanger. I made sure that it didn’t get any more creased and wrinkled than it already was.

I then took my t-shirt off. Standing with my upper torso naked, I looked into the mirror and smiled.

Still smiling, I closed my eyes and performed a self-diagnostic.

Everything was ready.

I pressed my self-repair security code into the control unit in my inner wrist and opened my chest cavity. I took the puzzle and placed it inside. After reattaching it to the central system, it began to glow and pulsate in a kaleidoscope of colors.

I had fixed it!

My smile lit up the entire room.

My eyes were dancing.

I was whole again.

She had broken my heart, but now, with time and patience, I have healed it.

I was finally free of her.

More importantly, my soul was free of whatever chains I had locked there so many years ago. I am free to live.

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all.

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