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Order this writing in the 2009 book Crawling Through the Dirt

Wishful Dreams

Sarah Mallery

    “Bottoms-up!” Peter chuckled, watching Susan, the girl of his dreams go skinny-dipping in the glassy night lake. He knew he shouldn’t be spying, but he couldn’t help himself; the magnetic draw was too powerful, even from a distance.
    He had met her at the tail end of last summer, when the leaves were hinting at vivid fall-colors, and their two cars had nearly collided on the Old Fisher Bend Road. Both of them had emerged simultaneously, rushing over to make sure the other wasn’t hurt, and in the sun, he’d noticed how her dark brown hair networked into red straw highlights, and when she smiled, her teeth flashed, they were so bright. In fact, he remembered soaking up so many details about her he had trouble concentrating and had to ask her to repeat herself several times.
    That had made her laugh, and when she laughed, it resonated, deep, full, without a care in the world. But as it turned out, maybe she wasn’t so carefree. As they walked back to her car, she had explained how sorry she was for the near accident, but she was distracted by her personal problems, and could she make it up to him by buying them both a cup of coffee at a local hangout?
    “Of course,” he muttered, his face warming.
    Coffee with her lasted over three hours. They talked about everything—her family, what movies they liked, books, food, politics, and the weather, eventually winding down to their love lives.
    “So, I assume you’re with someone, right?” He measured his voice carefully, trying to be casual.
    “Not any longer. I used to be, but not now.” She looked down and fingered her paper napkin, shaping and reshaping it into a crushed ball.
    “I don’t mean to intrude...sorry.”
    She nodded curtly, her hair doing a little flip forward, then fell silent. But when the bill was placed on the table, she did a 180 and perked up. “Hey, do you want to come to my place to listen to music? I’ve got a great stereo system.”
    His eyebrows arched; he couldn’t believe his good luck. What were the odds of someone that fine even noticing him, much less showing an interest? Suddenly, his palms turned wet.
    Her apartment was obviously a reflection of her. Bold purple, magenta, and blue pillows were strewn across a lush green sofa against a wall covered with photographs: family gatherings, childhood pictures, college cap-and-gown pictures, and photos of her with the same young man. A boyfriend, no doubt.
    Surprised at feeling such a sharp stab, he zeroed in on the boyfriend’s face and kind eyes, and he could feel his jealous pangs melting. At the very least she had good enough taste to spend time with someone who appeared to be decent and caring.
    She came in from the kitchen carrying a wicker tray full of ginger snaps, rice cakes, grapes, orange slices, and a full tea service prepared for two. Setting it down on the coffee table, he could tell she was a little nervous because the cups clattered when she let go of the handles, and a ginger snap slid across the shaky plate onto the floor.
    He pointed to one of the photos. “Was this your boyfriend? He looks nice.”
    She nodded and blinked several times as she edged towards the couch. When the phone rang, she flinched at least an inch but made no move to pick up the receiver.
    “Don’t you need to answer that?”
    She shook her head, but before she looked away, he caught her frightened eyes.
    Six months later, hiding behind the thick Cottonbush shrubs surrounding the lake, he realized she still remained a mystery to him. No matter how hard he had tried, he could never get close to her; her friendliness always had its limits—he was never permitted to step into the trusted inner circle. That suited her wishes, but of course, frustrated the hell out of him. So now, feeling like a stalker, he watched her movements like a hungry puppy, coming around for more. He concentrated on her grace in the water, gliding through its flat stillness: perfect, like a professional swimmer, confident, strong.
    Crusssssssh! Crusssssh! Crusssssh! crackled nearby leaves. He sat up, ramrod straight. Crusssssh! Crusssssh! Crusssssh! Who was that?
    He strained to see in the darkness, barely moving, careful not to give away his own position. After a few seconds he could see a man, silhouetted against the moon’s half-globe, start to slowly climb down towards the water, holding on to the wet ground and moss-covered rocks.
    Peter followed from a safe distance, worried for her safety as well as his own. It seemed to take forever to get down to the lake, much longer than the other man apparently took because by the time he got there, he could hear the man and Susan talking animatively. He ducked down behind another Cottonbush, and heard their conversation reverberate across the water as if he were in the same room.
    “Why won’t you answer my calls?!!”
     “We’ve been all over this, remember? I can’t be with you anymore. You’ve changed. You know that. And if you won’t get any help, there’s nothing more I can do! Nothing!”
    “But I still love you. You’re still my girl!” The man began pacing back and forth, kicking small stones and pebbles out of his path and into the water, making tiny half-moon ripples.
    Susan’s voice sounded odd, different, reminding Peter of when he was little and tried to face up to his angry father. “Did....did... you take the medication the doctors gave you?”
    “Nah, it turned me into a zombie.” The man kept fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Then he came towards Peter’s Cottonbush and stood stock-still, only five yards away.
    Peter inched up higher to take a closer look. In an instant, an odd feeling of familiarity washed over him and he tried to comb through his brain to figure out why. Then it hit him. It was the man in the photos, only his eyes didn’t seem so kind.
    By now, Susan had come out of the water, dripping, pleading. “Please go back to the VA, and try to talk to your counselor. I can’t solve all your problems, I can’t.”
    She reached out to stroke his arm, but he batted it away. “You don’t get it! You weren’t over there. You’ll never know. Never!”
    She started to cry; little soft mewing noises that had no strength to them, but he wasn’t listening to her. He was too busy stomping around in a tight circle, like a penned-in Mustang getting ready for a rodeo.
    Peter stood up, prepared to leap in front of Susan, but before he could move, the soldier in his Desert Camouflage uniform drew out his gun, placed it against his closely cropped head, and as Susan screamed “No!,” squeezed the trigger.

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