2007-03-23
Hello there, Stranger
Before you ask, as you always do, this is fictitious. As fictitious as fiction gets.
He walks into the space between clusters of people. From the left. He is laughing, talking, laughing. And you're already stealing sideways glances at his profile that are strident with tacitness. A bitter, pregnant sort, you think. No, wait - more like fearful (of what?). You are immediately aware of how clammy your fingers have become.The smile that's cradles someone else's company at the moment comforts you - gives you a reason not to approach him. Not to tell him.
Cowardice, or sensibility? It's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends anymore. Your middle name is Coward, and you'd gladly identify. Why do you even want to say it - to rake up the past and find yourself standing in a yard full of dirty, disgusting and very, very dead leaves again that Time was struggling to put away in a neat pile? It was your fault you know, for having a personality that deserved trouble.
His conversation ends and he retires like an expended bubble, still shimmering with the rainbow colours of the prior experience. Even though you know better, you find yourself standing face to face with him.
His eyes meet yours in a perfunctory greeting. Yours drop. A beige thread hangs loose from his chest pocket - and you begin to fully appreciate how tall he is. And how close he is standing - you can smell his shirt. Sun-kissed laundry.
"What?" he says. It isn't a question.
"Listen," you run the tip of your tongue over your lips. There's something I need to say - There's something I want to tell you
He's seen you stutter like this too often to get impatient. But you know that tilt of the head and ever so slight widening of eyes aren't patience.
"Can you spare me a moment?"
The two of you take a couple of unnecessary steps, as though the act of walking would take you away into a private world. You are now adjacent, just the way you like to talk to him. It makes you feel like he's on your side. But more importantly, you don't have to look at him when you talk.
"What is it?" His voice gives you a rough nudge, unintentional brutality.
"Uh, keep this to yourself."
Shit, but you're telling him only because you need public disclosure.
"I, um. Uh..."
Why am you telling him?!
"Just tell me what it is. Quick."
Your fingers knot, unknot, knot. You're losing your audience. You need to find your centre back. Justify yourself.
"Well, sometime ago - a couple of months, maybe three - a member from our club came to forgive me -" what a bad aftertaste the word brings, you think, "- for things that... things that I never did."
You pause. No, it isn't a pause, because no motion picks up thereafter. The words have left you. Nothing more to say.
You had enemies, you always knew. Their contempt suffocated your career. And deep down, you know the way you dealt with them never gave them reason to respect you. Perhaps you shouldn't have said it - kept it inside, forever, so that he wouldn't be reminded of the fool you'd been.
But this was hard evidence!
Was that what it was called? Evidence? How empty. How useless.
You lift your eyes and pin him in your gaze. You don't know what he sees when he looks back into them - you just hope that it isn't fear, anger and tiredness. If you could arrange the picture, you'd have him look back into clear, bright eyes. Steady eyes. Mature ones. Wise ones.
Is that a word rising out of his throat? You must stop it. You don't want to hear it.
"Yeah, that's it." You give him a parting look that smothers his response - what response, you'll never find out now, turn and leave.
You want him to run up and catch your elbow, tell you to wait. Lift your chin with his gaze and tell you that he was handling it, like he always did, that he believed in you - still.
But you know that the figure you are leaving behind is hesitant, guarded. You wonder what he's wondering. What did that mean - that drop of a heavy eyelid, so quiet it almost didn't happen?
Goodbye Stranger, you say softly. You say sadly.
nothing ever happens at 6:49 p.m.