The Promise

It’s Monday night and you’re lost. It’s impossible to get lost in this city—all the streets are numbered, for Christ’s sake—but somehow you’ve managed to do so. There’s only one possible explanation: you’re drunk.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk. Don’t think about what that says about your life. Just don’t even go there. Maybe later you can call Vinnie and discuss it but now is not the time. Now you need to figure out where the hell you are.

And just like that, without reason, you’re thinking about her. There are a million other things you should probably be thinking about. And if you absolutely need to go down this path, you could be thinking about any of your other ex-girlfriends: Elaina, Ciarrah, Jessica, Ashley. Take your pick, man. Anyone but her.

Too late.

You’re thinking about Sarah.

You want to call her. This is probably a terrible idea. Why are you taking your phone out? Don’t do this.

When you were sixteen you made her a promise. Is that what this is about?

Sarah.

She had hair like fire that burned red down her back and illuminated her pale skin. These days she cuts it short; the flame atop a candle. You remember what it felt like to run your fingers through her hair while you were kissing her. How she would push you down and climb on top of you, her fiery hair falling all around you, igniting you. Soon the two of you were both burning, an inferno. Together your fire outshone every light made by God, almost as if in defiance of Him, almost as if to say your passion was better than anything He could craft.

This is what happens when two writers make love.

Sarah.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you’re contemplating calling your ex-girlfriend.

You’re scrolling through the contacts on your phone but you can’t find her. This is for the best. Maybe you deleted it. Maybe you’re just too drunk to find it.

When you were sixteen you fell in love with Sarah and it’s possible she fell in love with you, too. She was a year older than you and way out of your league; this was not a girl you should have ever even attempted to talk to. But you were always bold in an arrogant, stupid sort of way, and the fact that you shouldn’t talk to her only made you want to talk to her more. You were a cliché.

You still are.

You promised her something. Who keeps promises they make when they’re sixteen? Nobody. Let it go.

It was her hair that you first noticed. Fire. And then her eyes. Blue like only eyes can be; deep in the way poets write about; energetic and scorching in their beauty. You had never seen anyone as alive as Sarah.

But you did not fall in love with her until you discovered she loved to write. Have you ever desired anything more in life than a woman who could play God with her pen? You loved to watch her write. She wrote mostly by hand, so she could feel the words form as she released them onto the paper. Her brow would arch ever so slightly when she couldn’t think of the right word to use. The determination and creativity that burned in her eyes while she wrote excited you in a way that nothing else in life ever could.

Sarah.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you need a cigarette. You’re all out, though. You dig through your pockets and find you’ve still got some cash on you. Nowhere near enough for a cab home but just enough for a pack of smokes and a soda. There’s a bodega across the street that’s still open.

When you purchase the cigarettes the clerk asks you for your ID and you smile. Still young. It’s easy to forget that, sometimes. Life has a way of making everyone feel old.

You’re back on the street, lit cigarette in your mouth, and you’re scrolling through your contacts again. This time you find her. The number is there. You want to call her. What would you say?

Sarah.

The two of you would spend hours together in her room, laboring away at the task of Creation. You’d read aloud to one another and critique each other’s works. And then you would make love. You would always make love.

When you were sixteen you promised her that you would always love her, no matter what. She smiled and told you how sweet you were, but did not return the promise. You were sixteen and stupid. She was smarter at seventeen than you could ever hope to be in your whole life.

These days Sarah is a published author. She’s written a book, What It Means to Be Alive and Other Poems. Some of her poems are about you. You think so, anyway. You’re pretty sure, in fact.

What have you done? Nothing. Still not even done with your novel.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and you’re contemplating calling your ex-girlfriend and now it’s raining. The rain came out of nowhere but it’s coming down hard. If you’re gonna make this call you need to get out of the rain. The bodega has since closed up shop but at the end of the block is a 24 hour CVS. You run to it.

Sarah.

You were in her room writing when the sky opened up and unleashed its storm. You thought nothing of it but she looked up from her poem and said to you, “Let’s go outside.” You could deny her nothing and so you went. She ran in the rain, laughing, begging you to chase her. So you did. Her hair trailed out behind her as she ran but no amount of rain could extinguish her flame. You chased her and she ran and when you caught her she wrapped her body around you and you made love right there. A moment of carefree glee from a girl who endured a lifetime of solemnity.

You always think of this moment whenever it rains. No matter how many years have passed now, no matter where in this world you are, the rain always makes you think of Sarah and her hair and the promise you made her.

It’s Monday night and you’re lost and drunk and your phone is broken. You dropped it in a puddle while running to CVS and the water killed it. You’re not calling her now.

An employee comes up to you and asks you if she can help you with anything.

“I’m lost,” you tell her. “I’m so lost.”

And for reasons you’re not entirely sure of you start crying.

The woman—Casey, according to her nametag—asks you what’s the matter, and you try to explain to her that when you were sixteen you made a promise to a girl that you would love her forever, no matter what. You try to explain to her that to this day you’ve kept your promise.

What It Means to Be Alive
a poem by Sarah Engles

There are moments
when I’m sure
I’m dying.

I can feel
my very life
draining.

Life has a way
of making us all
feel so old.

But then;

He looks at me
with those eyes
so bright

So full of joy
and adventure
and love.

Love for me.
I can hardly
believe it.

But this;

This boy has
ignited a spark
in my life.

He teaches me
what it means
to be alive.

I will always
remember this boy
and his promise.