You coming for the food? you ask. I said yes, and you give a short, quick nod. We’re standing on the sidewalk, remember? Boys and girls walking between us, shuffling their feet, avoiding us, coming in between our locked eyes. Shall we go? This time it’s me that nods, though I do it slowly, almost hesitantly, but inside I’m confident. Shall we then? Nudging me with your eyebrows and a slight head tilt. I smiled, gently, subtly — we go. We go, talking from time to time, but mostly we keep our heads straight in front of us, looking at the road, looking at the trees around us, and the cars that pass, but never the pale blue sky, never the sun. The wind is cold and strong — I could barely feel it, but you rub your arms like they’re cold, cold skin and cold ears. I pretended not to notice. The air now, in springtime, smells like flowers and pollen, sweet and fresh, if not a bit damp, and a cause for allergies. But back then, in autumn, there was a particular dryness to it all, so my hands felt like paper, wrinkled like an old man’s, and I was constantly conscious of it — I kept on rubbing the tips of my fingers, trying to get that feeling out.
You ask about something — something about my sister, perhaps, or something about me, my family — something personal. Did I laugh? If I did, it was only because I was shy, or diffident, which happens only rarely, but I looked away and thought for a second. I slowed down my pace, or maybe it just seemed that way, to think. You’re looking at me in anticipation, and I glanced back, and turned away immediately, smiled again. I began a sentence, and your eyes light up a little bit, but the words choked in my throat, in my head — this odd collection of thoughts, crammed up somewhere in me, stray strings that stay afloat, unanchored by words. I said something eventually, once we got to an intersection, softly, as a car whizzed by so you can’t quite hear what I said — what? you say, with a tinge of force. I kind of repeated myself, but changed some of the words to make it less embarrassing ... for both of us.
When we arrive — it must have been around a fifteen minute walk — there were already plenty of people there. We’re not late, really, but not early either, and people were already immersed in their little groups, giggling, telling long jokes, sharing stories. I stood there while you begin walking in front of me. You do look back, if only for an instant, silently asking me to join, but just as quickly, and without a word, I declined. Then you go on, perhaps a little guilty, but probably not. It was all soon forgiven though, if indeed there was anything to forgive in the first place; I found myself talking to several guys that I had some classes with once, but that I was never actually that close with. And I enjoyed myself for the most part, as the day turned darker and colder, and the room became louder, boisterous with hearty laughter, people trying to talk fast with their mouths full, between sips, yelling across the room. We bumped into each other a few times, two or three times — we said hi to each other shyly, nothing else, nothing more, but in the ruckus of it all, those small moments seemed quiet, intimate — fleeting, nonetheless. I got tired early on, something that I’m not sure came naturally, or more as a premeditated excuse I was using to leave before midnight.
So soon enough, I found myself outside, listening to the muffled music from inside, chattering, indeterminate conversations, and crickets chirping. I was cold, yes, and I thought about leaving for home, but I stood there for whatever reason. I think I was probably waiting for someone, you, to come outside, and we could walk back together. I checked my watch many times, until it did reach midnight. At that, without the slightest second thought, without looking back at the lively scene behind me, I started walking away and went home. And you say that you left just minutes after!
It was weird that I didn’t feel tired when I returned to work, sitting there, mundane, soaking in the soul-sapping AC drone that some of my coworkers swear is the recruiting call of the devil. I could only laugh, of course, and smile in a sad way because it is kind of true, feeling your entire existence pressed down, and arms compelled to go through the same repetitive motions — still, when I come home in the evenings, and go on the Internet, they tell me to be grateful for what I have. They say: imagine you’re in Africa, starving, in the middle of a great civil war, and you’re caught up in these horrible life or death situations, that the village next to yours was completely wiped out by Ebola or something. Could you? I did try, really; it’s hard though. I just end up feeling amused, mostly, I must be a horrible person on the inside, I still complain when I run out of milk. Can someone patronize me for having problems, and being annoyed at the small things? Can you blame me?
I thought about asking you about this online for a second, but I ended up doing so with one of my friends when we went out for dinner — a French restaurant on Main Street, that was small, carefully decorated with red and gold wallpaper and plush seats and dim lighting, and we had waiter who was actually French but who was rather abrasive and almost rude. I asked her, my friend, in an innocent manner, posing it just as a quirky little brain exercise on a whim. Do you think we’re a little spoiled, taking into account all the, you know, horrible things that are happening around the world? I asked between bites of my shrimp scampi pasta. She thought about it for a few seconds, and slowly answered that she believes that we can complain about our relatively trivial troubles — it’s what makes us keep on getting better and better! she interjects enthusiastically — but that we should at the same time acknowledge that there are far worse problems in the world, and that knowing that will make us appreciate life more. I agreed, for argument’s sake, nodding over and over again as I finished my food and wiped the edges of my mouth. Afterwards, I offered to pay, but we ended up splitting the bill.
When we meet again, how about you take me to somewhere I haven’t been to before? Or somewhere neither of us have been? The world seems so familiar sometimes, I forget I know so little — that is, until I look around a little more, or look at you, and listen, and then I’ll feel utterly lost, like a child again. It brings back nostalgia, and then fear, and then this irking feeling that everything is slowly fading to black, with some rare flashes of light now and then. And now as I’m sitting in the dark, staring at this blinking, dimming, lamp, shifting between light and dark, I can’t help but be bothered by the same problems I had ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. Feeling unsettled, itching for something — but most of the time I just watch TV, read, eat, and everything seems to go away, the problems and worries — for a while, at least. Let the flood of emptiness rush over me, the words, the images — endless, unceasing. I can only sigh a little bit, cover up with a smile that I’ve convinced myself is genuine; it is genuine.
I’m thinking back to that autumn evening, hearing the music, the repetitive and generic ambience looming in the background, and then the foreground, seeing your face among the crowd, looking somewhere else across the room, and never at me. Yet now, that scene is full of vagueness, the details eroded by those couple months that have since past and my constant preoccupation with everything that has been going on. I can’t recall everything you told me that day, that night, but every so often, when the bustle of the world winds down a little, I can, among other things, pull myself back to that evening, and recollect. You tell me that you’re working on something big, I remember, with your jubilant smile, a gleam of sorts, your entire body is jittery with excitement and optimism. Come see me sometime, I told you, I’ll miss that excitement, that contagious happiness you had, and that I’d hope you still have.
Everything is quiet now; I hear only echoes of the day long gone and half-faded memories. Nighttime here is lonely, and desolate, in a way, with some sad sense of solitude, and I feel a strange sense of melancholy. But we all have to cope somehow, I suppose. So instead I’m imagining I’m at a park in the summer: the sun, shining, bright and warm, and the grass beautifully green and so soft. I’m sitting on a comfortable wooden bench, watching well-dressed and happy people walk by with their children and their pets, listening to their cheerful voices, listening to the birds singing and the bikes creaking, and you’ll sit next to me, without saying a word — just a glance at each other, a silent acknowledgement, and together we’ll look across the open field down a winding path lined with a grove of trees, to the colorful playground in the distance — and I’ll think that life is pretty good.
No comments:
Post a Comment