Let’s say it’s sunny today,
one of those days where there’s not a single cloud in the sky, so once you pass
the skyline, the horizon, it’s just this beautiful, gentle gradation of generic
blue, up into sky blue, baby blue, and once your neck is stretched all the way
back, approaching white. Maybe the sun is in the way, and it makes the sky
gleam and blind. That can happen too. Let’s say the sun is behind us though.
Its rays soaking through your shirt, warming your hair, the back of your neck.
An urge to get into the shade, under a tall, old tree. Converse. We talk about
weather, about the single thing that binds us as human beings, about the
inexpressible emptiness that can only occur with an income that puts you into
the 75th percentile and enough leisure time for you to have strolled past
without a thought of time. We say all this without saying a word, though.
Let’s say you have curly hair, the kind
that seems to the unaccustomed eyes untamed, uncontrolled. It is, but you don’t
say. It is beautiful. Black. It shines in the sunlight. Excuse me, I begin. And
then your eyes come up, brown, large, and engaging. I—
Let’s say I pause for a moment, because
courage has little foresight, and in the moment of overcoming, I am stunned,
perhaps, at your happy gaze. Because it is happy: a smile, an unwrinkled smile,
and truthful eyes.
I paused, and collected an
extra breath. What did you think I said next?
We sit, and I ask if she
wants anything to drink. Just water, she says meekly. I nod and smile, and get
up to go over to the kitchen to fix her (and my) drink. Wait, she says. It’s ok.
Are you sure? I ask. She nods. I’m fine, she says, unconvincingly. I’m
standing, halfway lunged, on the threshold of motion. Then I come back and sit.
So
she sits there, eyes lowered, not out of spite or unwillingness to speak, but
out of the simple recognition that the kind words that should be pouring out
right now are not coming, and her easy embarrassment because of it. I scoot
forward in my seat. How about this, I say:
I met a narcissist. He was
the type of person that always had something more to add, comments that
sometimes lived up to his enthusiasm, but for the most part fell flat in its
mundaneness, repetition, absolute incongruity with its delivery. Yet he dressed
well, and when we first met, approached me in a manner that was unassuming, even
timid. A nervous smile. His eyebrows were raised, as if he were waiting for me
to say the first word. I would not. After several morbid, silent seconds, he
finally chuckled a little bit and asked me what my name was. But even as I told
him, he seemed not to understand, or did not really care. Not intentionally
though, since his gaze suggested that he was paying attention, and was hearing
me; but it just seemed as if my words never deeply interested him.
He began talking about himself. About how
he was the eldest of three boys, raised by a single mother that was never
around much working odd jobs. About how he was a rising football star in high
school before a knee injury, and how college he was almost cast in a leading
role in a Hollywood film. He looked on the verge of tears. Still I said
nothing. He heaved a great sigh, and kind of slouched forward and gave a
melancholy smile, shaking his head to himself. I waited, and then said so what
are you up to now? And without looking up, he said that he was looking for
something, someone to worship, other than himself.
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“I once vacationed in the Caribbean once,
sailing off the coast of some tropical island in a big yacht. The water was
blue, really blue, and it was warm but not hot. I was there with some friends,
and we were drinking and watching the waves, like, caress the boat—like a baby.
By midnight we were still out there, absolutely drunk, and one of my friends,
he was throwing up over the side and he fell overboard. We saw him go over. I
stumbled forward, and I started to laugh. He was gasping for air and flailing his
arms, yelling up at us when his mouth wasn’t being muzzled by seawater. A
hopeless scene, really. And I really did laugh, and then I threw up too. I was
wondering how it would feel to be in the warm water right then and there, to be
really caressed by the ocean…”
“What
happened to your friend then?”
“This
was eight years ago. Early August. I got a concussion when I fell and hit my
head on the railing.”
“Is
he…dead?”
“Sooner
or later.”
She clears her throat and
asks me if she can have some water after all. Yes, of course, and I quickly
grab her a glass. She thanks me. I like your dress, she says. I have to smile.
“So
what happened next?”
“I
remember seeing the reflection of the moon in the ocean, all wavy and
distorted. I felt terribly ill. My friend—I can’t remember exactly when, but
the splashing and choked pleas faded, and the night was disgustingly quiet.
Just the soothing sound of waves against the side of the boat, occasional
footsteps. And when morning came, I was lying on the deck, smelling the salty
hardwood, the sun in my face.
“See
this on my neck? That was from sometime that night. I can’t remember exactly,
but this mark—it serves a better reminder than any real memory.”
“But—”
My living room is mostly
white; one wall is dominated by a clean, minimalist bookshelf that rises to the
ceiling, filled with novels with broken spines. A small fake potted plant on
there: a single orange tulip. It’s late in the afternoon, and I can hear the
rush hour traffic honking beneath my apartment only slightly. She has her legs
crossed, and is looking at the bookshelf. She points: I see you’ve…
The narcissist stood and
began walking away. I followed. Soon we were outside, nighttime and chilly. He
did not turn back until I called after him. And then he smiled, even gloating a
little, as if amused that he had managed to lure me out to him.
“Well what are you up to then?” He was
feigning ignorance. He was still smiling
“Everything you expected, it seems.”
“I’d like that very much.”
There is a coffee shop at
the corner, two blocks from where I live. The space is cramped, smelling of old
wood and burnt coffee; the service is friendly but slow. I stopped by last week
on a Friday. A nice young man approached me and offered to buy my coffee. I
declined politely. He nodded a little and said, ok, that’s fine, but what’s
your name. It’s the least I could ask for from someone as pretty as you. He
stood up straighter and tried a glowing, confident smile. I’m sure it’ll be all
right to keep some mystery in your life, I replied.
“Where are you headed now?” he asked.
“Oh, just home.”
“May I walk you back?”
“Depends on where you’re headed.”
“Death, ultimately, but to wherever seems
enticing in the meantime.”
I
put my hands in my pocket and glanced at him. Why did they always seem so
happy? I adjusted my purse strap and brushed my hair back. Above me, the
streetlight’s luminescence shone on only half of the narcissist’s face.
“I
know you probably don’t think much of me,” he said. “But I promise, I’m no
worse than anyone else trying to be happy.”
“Perhaps
you should try in a different way.”
He
laughed. His shoes were shiny black leather. Without another word, he nodded
his head as if conceding, and turned and walked away.
She stands up now. Her face
is silent and expressionless. I’m staring at the dent in the couch that she had
made. Do you have any dinner plans, she asks. No, not yet, I say. Would you
like to join me and my husband then? He just got into town this morning. That
would be lovely, I reply.
So at around 7, we arrive at the restaurant. Her husband is seated already, and as we approach the table, he
stands and turns around. It is the narcissist. What did you expect? We shake
hands and sit down. The food is lovely. Hardly a word is spoken. Afterwards, as
we are preparing to leave, he gives a quizzical look and asks if we’ve ever met
before. Grinning, I say I’m not sure, maybe, but the world is small enough already.
Let’s say that happened.
