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Over

by Cara Hall

May 2011

Cole feels the sun’s warmth beaming down upon his perfect tan skin. Bright bursts of artificial light flash rapidly like a strobe light at a 90’s rave. He opens his eyes and takes in the view of North Robertson Boulevard through YSL shades. The mob of paps are closing in, but the restaurant is not that much farther. He hands the valet attendant the keys to his black Range Rover and glances down at his other hand to find his fingers intertwined with Michelle’s, instantly sending a surge of happiness radiating through his chiseled body. He guides her protectively until they are safely inside the restaurant.

“Welcome back, Mr. McCutchen,” greets the smiling restaurant manager, extending his hand.

“Thank you. It’s good to see you again,” Cole offers, shaking the man’s hand.

“Let me show you to your table,” says the manager turning to escort the golden couple then pausing to add, “By the way Miss Mays, I loved your last movie.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very sweet of you,” she responds graciously.

Cole gives Michelle’s hand a loving squeeze and winks at her as they follow the manager to their usual table in a private banquette toward the rear of the establishment designed to give the utmost privacy to the restaurant’s high profile patrons.

After exchanging pleasantries with the wait staff and ordering their meals, the doting couple is finally left alone to soak each other in. Michelle’s curvaceous but tiny frame, accented by her radiant flowing blonde locks and stunning bone structure, is the perfect complement to Cole’s dreamy, square jawed Hollywood-leading-man good looks. They sit, each with both arms on the table, her small dainty hands placed inside his. He gazes passionately at her then closes his eyes, inhales deeply and thinks, “So this is love.”

He exhales slowly and opens his eyes to find that he is no longer sitting in the restaurant across from Michelle. Instead, he is walking into a coffee shop, immediately smacked in the face with the vanilla/hazelnut/caramel aroma of flavored coffee. It has a bohemian style décor, the walls littered with the photographs and paintings of local artists. Rather than the hard wooden furniture of the corporate coffee giants, this small cozy café is stuffed with comfy oversized chairs and fluffy loveseats.

He orders a green tea and plops down onto a large chair, sinking into its well-worn cushion. His ocean blue eyes glance around the room taking it all in until his gaze fixes on a couple canoodling on the loveseat across from him. They share a latte and giggle, oblivious to the world around them. So wrapped up in their love for each other, they fail to notice his icy glare penetrating their union. He remembers what it feels like to be so in love. He hates these people for being so happy. Not long ago he was one of these happy people. But with those two simple words, three syllables, seven letters – “It’s over” – the happiness drained out of him and the pain poured in. Everyone tried to convince him the pain is only temporary.

“You’ll get through this, Cole.”

“She wasn’t right for you. You’ll find the right girl.”

“You’re going to be fine. The pain will pass.”

But it doesn’t. Time passes, but not the pain. He can feel the anger and sadness welling up inside of him. His jaw clenches and a knot takes up residence in his throat. Fearing that it won’t be much longer before the tears begin to flow, he closes his eyes tightly. He concentrates on slowing his breath, focusing on the length of each inhale and exhale. With each breath the feelings dissipate. After several minutes he has regained his composure and is ready to face the world.

He opens his eyes and finds himself transported yet again. He looks around and observes his familiar surroundings. He is at home in his bathroom, sitting in a tub full of tepid water with the faint odor of lavender from the now dissolved bath crystals tickling his nostrils. Then he remembers the pills he took. He must have dozed off and been dreaming.

“Well, there’s no use in focusing on all that now,” he thinks. “What’s done is done and soon it will all be over.”

“Give ‘em a show,” his agent, Barry Lowenstein, always said. “Oh, I’ll give them a show alright. And I’ll show her!” He pictures the spectacle he will have created, a firestorm of publicists and paparazzi.

He slouches lower in the bathtub; Ambien has her grip on him now and she certainly isn’t going to let him go. As he sinks deeper into her clutches he hears the distant ringing of the telephone. “Probably just another drug coated dream.”

Through the bedroom, across the long hallway, down the grand spiral staircase and into the breathtaking foyer, the answering machine sits on a sleek mahogany table, sandwiched by photographs of Cole and Michelle during happy times. The machine picks up the call.

“Cole, it’s me. We need to talk,” Michelle whispers softly but with urgency. “I’m pregnant.”

Back in the bathroom, Cole fights to keep his eyes open. He stares at the framed magazine cover on the wall, a picture of himself, shirtless, with the caption reading, “America loves Cole McCutchen.” He uses his last ounce of energy to scoff and a final thought creeps into his cloudy head: “I have no one to love and no one loves me.” At last, he surrenders to the power of the pills and melts into the water.

Cara Hall is a lawyer and aspiring writing. She hails from West Haven, CT. In addition to the practice of law and growing her small clothing company, she spends her free time writing short stories and screenplays.