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| In The Surf (part 8) |
I sped past most of page one's results, skidding on the occasional eye-catching road sign. Most were just billboards promoting "Used CL coupes for sale" or "San Diego Padres, Scoreboard Announcements." I spent a few moments debating the seemingly genuine "Charming Ladies Dating Service" ad; "...professionals visiting Southern California, need a companion? dozens of intelligent ladies are waiting for you..." There were several duplicated entries for The USS San Diego (CL-53), an Atlanta-class light cruiser, antiaircraft of the US Navy, commissioned after the entry in WWII, bristling with sixteen five-inch guns, mounted in eight double turrets.
I resisted the urge to explore this lighter interest piece, yielding to the quest at hand. Already, I was tired of this search; weighed down by its intensity and looming threat. I felt silly for losing a day's pay to play detective. I arched my neck into the pillow's curve and silently pondered both the risks and trivialities involved in my obsessive behavior.
*here you are, Gwen, thirty-nine years old, in the process of divorcing the man you've known since high school...by small means the only man you've known, but none the less traumatic. You have been accustomed to the mundane. Made friends with it even, and now you're digging for some kind information based upon a whim!? Some "feeling" that has registered on some kind of internal compass? What are you doing?*
What WAS I doing? Looking back, I wish I would've just bypassed that whim; endured the irritation. I should've just rode out the infernal pea that festered between box springs. But I feared that while it rested, undisturbed and feeding off my ignorance, it would sprout into a malignancy without cure. I could not stroll through my kingdom's forests in bliss anymore; could not wait at castle's walls for the attack. I had studied the rules of engagement. I would bring the fight to the enemy's turf; protecting the lush of my land.
But it was now two o'clock. The children would be home soon. I resigned to log off for the day. I book marked the page and prepared to log off. With one last scroll of the entries I was drawn to the very last one , tucked under the heading of "San Diego Times, report; June 10th 2008," laying dormant at the bottom of page forty-eight like a spring bulb under frozen ground. I would come back to it when the season thawed; after supper and baths, while the kids were in bed. When I wasn't so vulnerable, so all alone.
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Posted by paperlily on 2008-08-02 14:30:48 | Rating: | Views: 102
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