“The Necklace” (A 500-Word Exercise)

I originally wrote this story in early 2009, as a fictional letter to Theo (a character in “The Prescribed Burn”), but I wanted to challenge myself by whittling it down to 500 words.

I broke my long, jangling necklace again. At least two of the little bronze bells rolled under the radiator, to be lost forever.

Please don’t scold me for neglecting to take it off while cleaning. I like the sound it makes when I move. Especially on a summer day like today, I craved something cold and familiar against my skin.

I don’t expect you to remember my jewelry, but you know this necklace. I wore it the night we met at the Stateline Diner, our halfway point. You arrived in your new car, which you had been wanting to show me.

I felt pretty. My necklace chimed when I hugged you.

The diner was crowded, and I wondered if we had made a poor decision, agreeing to meet at such a noisy place. The waitress brought us ice water in tall, sweaty glasses painted with pictures of football helmets. I was relieved.

At least, if we exhausted all conversation topics, I could impress you by finding your favorite team on the glass, by pointing to the green helmet with the white writing. Until then, I would tell you how my necklace made me proud because I had purchased it during a solitary city adventure. I wanted to prove to you that I had never needed you.

But I tugged on the necklace. I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

“Want to see my new car?” You asked, after we finished eating.

“I guess I can stay a few minutes,” I said.

I sat in the front passenger seat, and you demonstrated the cruise control. I admired your efforts to become a man. Before I could leave, you handed me the pocket-sized notebook where I had written our story. Once, that had been my present to you.

I cried, and you let me rest my head on your shoulder. I heard the necklace jingle when you put your hand on my chest, and I hated that my jewelry was trying to speak for me, expressing things I couldn’t say.

I wanted you to kiss me so I could remember how it felt. You responded, and the next few moments were a tumble of limbs and unbuttoning.

We were young.

We could still jump over the emergency brake to the back seat. You could still push me down on the cloth, not leather, cushion. The back of my head could hit the door release repeatedly, and the door would remain shut because you had, for unknown reasons, chosen the child safety lock.

I didn’t feel pain until you put your hand behind my head to soften the impact. I didn’t even realize my necklace was broken until you collapsed on top of me, brushing one end of the chain off the edge of the car seat like a crumb, like something we had left behind so help could find us.

I gathered the metal in one hand. I thought only about how I could fix it.

(Photo by ralphunden)