Two Lovers
06/14 2021
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.--- T.S. Eliot
It is funny, sometimes, how time works. How it can speed up to a nearly imperceptible whirling of colors and laughter and beers and tobacco smoke and tea, only to grind down to a near halt in the moment after --- perhaps as you realize that those green eyes in front of you will go away, again, forever. Or so it would seem. And then it starts again. Everything is after all circular. Or so it seemed.
Those were probably the thoughts running through Vincent's mind --- one can never really know anyways --- as he sat alone on the bench of the bus station with a dried stack of roses between his legs. They had now withered to a dismal version of purple, with a hint of dusty gray. Around him young people were scurrying about hurrying about their business. It was Union after all, and finding someone like Vincent sitting alone was an anomaly, but no one bothered nor paid him any mind nonetheless. It was Union after all.
Someone put down their bag in front of Vincent and his face shot up to meet the woman he was there for, but he was only met with a stranger looking down on a map mumbling something to herself before picking her bag back up again and rushing away. Vincent leaned back and let his gaze wander across the terminal. He once more followed the stark geometrical lines of the architecture, formed out of differing shades of gray layered as to try to give it some illusion of color without the controversy of color, matching the angles of the rows of platforms with numbered, yellow signs, ranging from 1 to 74. Although this charade was growing more difficult as more and more buses had now started coming in towards the evening, which replaced the landscape of a large gray concrete hall with that of a whirlwind of differing shades of brown, gray, beige and white pacing back and forth seemingly in some sort of set, staccato rhythm and speed. He grabbed a withered rose petal and felt it between his fingers, before pulling it out and letting it fall to the floor. As people passed the gust of wind carried it along with them slowly, one gust at a time. While it wasn't that interesting to follow it beat looking into the void of the whirlwind. But eventually, too, that faded and he was left once more to himself.
Now, Vincent wasn't particularly unhappy, or lonely, or depressed, or happy, or socially satisfied, or clinically ecstatic. As far as he knew he was sitting on a bench waiting, and that was that. And that might've been true, but that was not what it looked like. Vincent remembered how the first steps were taken by the government without anyone noticing, as he and his college girlfriend was having lunch at some Chili's with the news playing on the TV at the corner of the bar. The following steps were taken as everyone was seemingly keeping their eyes shut --- Vincent & his girlfriend as well, comfortably asleep in his bed. Suddenly, however, every part of life shifted. Grabbing a loaf of bread from the grocery store were filled with ID-checks, taking some money out of the ATM at 2AM for a sketchy bag after an even sketchier club was a thing of the past. Instead every part of life was filled, suddenly, with some part of reflection of what that action meant to someone else, someone else much less fortunate, or if you were that less fortunate those who had a lot more. And then the Union started. Life, then as Vincent knew it became something else entirely. Now, as a result, sitting alone on a bench with a bunch of roses had become one of those things that one certainly shouldn't do according to social norms. However, at this point of time he didn't care at all.
A man sat down next to Vincent, opened his bag and began shuffling some papers. Vincent sneaked a peek and saw that they were some assortment of travel documents --- visas, stamped documents, those kind of things. After a moment he stuffed the papers back into his bag, brushed his greasy hair back and sighed.
"Tough night ahead?" Vincent said.
The man jumped slightly, "Huh? Yeah... Have to transfer in Ogdenville at 3AM and then sit there t'ill 4 waiting for my stupid transfer." he paused, "These cheapskate companies are sure getting more daring to what we --- the customers --- can tolerate." He grabbed a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiped his forehead.
Vincent nodded in agreement, "Ever since they took my car I've never much liked traveling myself." he said, with his tone of voice somewhat implying that it wasn't meant for the man next to him on the bench.
"True, true. However, I had a crappy car myself --- a Toyota from the early 00's --- so I can't say that I relate to any joy in the driving itself but I did enjoy that feeling of riding down the highway with the radio on" he paused, "Although maybe I'm just nostalgic about the times and not the driving."
"Maybe." Vincent said, thinking if that didn't also apply to him. Was it the Pontiac Firebird from 1981 that he was nostalgic about, or the memories of Sara's hair waving in the wind from the partially opened window on summer days?
The man looked him over. "You know, I can't really place you."
Vincent chuckled, "I've heard heard that before."
"You give of this... Maybe I'm just assuming here, stop me if I am please, but this feeling of someone waiting for someone."
"What'd give it away? The flowers, the sitting alone on the bench?"
He laughed. "Honestly, at this point you've grown so desensitized so that the only thing you think of when you see flowers like that is funerals, and nothing else. No, I think it was something I just recognized in that look you have. Like you're not only waiting on something, but the only thing --- if you know what I mean."
Vincent quit looking at the crowd and focused on the man and smiled at him, "You're part of the old generation, right?"
He looked back, "You seem a little too young to be."
"I guess so."
"But yet, here you sit doing the same things that we did, before the union."
"I guess so."
He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his forehead again, which was dry this time --- something that ticked of the amateur psychologist in Vincent.
"You do know what we are going through right? As a society, as a species?" Pausing for a response, that was not given, the man continued "You know that is what distinguishes your fucking generation from ours --- at least we took responsibility, but yours is too occupied with frivolous things like this to take some fucking responsibility, responsibility for the entire species." he stopped to breath in, "My god. We are doomed." Without waiting, or looking, for any response the man grabbed his suitcase and walked away.
Vincent sat, as he had been for hours, on the bench for still a few hours more. The man might've hoped to leave an impression on the relatively young man as if it would leave him to reflect over his choices, but much to the sweaty man's dismay he left him in just the same state that he had met him in. Additionally the man hadn't known that the young man on the bench had already made up his stubborn mind, a mind so stubborn as to be filled with something stronger than the imagined responsibility toward something abstract as a species --- the concrete feeling of something intentional toward someone that he loved. As the hours grew toward night, and the stream of people halted to make way for some eerie quiet mixed with that of a floor polisher Vincent, once again, made his way back to his apartment.
He put back the candles in their respective drawer and cleaned the rose petals from the floor and put them in their plastic bag. He heated up some microwave pizza, and went to bed reading some old letters. They were memories, almost faded then from what they had been but upon every re-reading they grew into something new, something else. Before he realized it he was asleep, and he walked the newly created landscape of those faded memories. The edges were burnt, fuzzy and unclear. The colors looked like an old photograph where the spectrum of color ranged from beige to beige-er. He was standing on a field watching the grass blow in the breeze, and for every breath he inhaled he felt the grass do the same. There was a heavy scent of salt in the air, of scraped knees and cold goosebumps on a pair of sensual thighs. Unknowingly the scenery switched and while he was only seeing black he could trace the outlines of the room he was in from the distinct smell alone. He heard the faint voice of someone on the radio from inside the bathroom, with the slightly louder voice humming along --- still too scared to go all the way. It was the morning after the first time he spent the night in her apartment.
He awoke and the landscape faded once more, eroding what's left to an even smaller shore. For some reason that Vincent couldn't place the smell of salt came and went during the rest of the morning as he put forth the candles on the table and the rose petals, as well as during his shower --- which he thought was odd seeing as his soap was supposed to smell like coconut. But it faded, as most things do and his routine carried on, and he grabbed a sandwich from the fridge and finally went out the door.
The city hadn't changed that much since he had moved there. It was dirtier, sure, but it hadn't really changed. Not only did the buildings look alike --- differing shades of concrete in various patterns --- but so did the people. When he had grown up he remembered distinct phases where one could, in retrospect only of course, pick out distinct characteristics of the years that went. For the last ten years, however, he could pick out no visible characteristics. It seemed like the clothes were the same, the mannerisms were the same, the groups of people, the noise, the activities. They had all remained pretty much the same. But then again that was only from the outside. Maybe the people had changed like before, only this time only in the comfort of their home. But no, probably no, Vincent thought as he squeezed into the crowded bus. We like to think that we are utterly unique on the inside, in the place where no one but ourselves can access that little homunculus who is calling all the shots but too afraid to come out all the way. Maybe to some people, Vincent thought, but you can only find yourself through others after all. The bus stopped and he got off at the familiar gray sterile hall. Leather shoes tapped against the smooth concrete in unison as Vincent veered away from the crowd he was being shuffled along with. His bench reappeared and he took his seat, again, with the same bunch of withered roses between his knees. As he sat down he immediately regretted his decision. He had forgot his book again.
Now, prima facie the days weren't all that bad. The whirlwind of people and the small talk with people sitting down next to him, some admonishing him --- like the day before --- some apathetic and nodding their heads like they listened to what he had to say. The putting forth and back of all of the candles, rose petals and the throwing the lobster into the freezer again. All of that wasn't that bad. Doing things over and over again was, maybe weirdly so, kind of soothing. No, what kept grinding his gears were the dreams. The shadows that haunted him when he was alone, as he was waiting on the bus, as he was taking a piss in the urinal, and when he was trying to sleep. On the days that it happened --- for it wasn't everyday --- it always started as a faint hum, vibrating, undulating to some rhythm that he had known all of his life but only recently understood how to perceive. It continued to increase until it took over his mind, until it had no name. Until it simply was something that was there, had seemingly always been there. And then the cycle begun again, and the dice were thrown again. That suffering, if that was what you could call it, had become a part of him --- perhaps it always had. That was the way it felt like, at least.
The last day of Union was upon him and while it was indeed something to stress about he didn't feel to worried. And he couldn't quite explain why. If Sara didn't show up today, then Sara would probably never show up again. Vincent knew that. He knew that the probability of her showing up the last day was very slim, seeing as that would only leave them a few days to see each other before she needed to return up north to work if they'd relaxed their policy. Or if she was even alive. Yet, there was something keeping him situated on that bench, unmoving to any external influence or introspective rationale. It irritated him that he couldn't explain what it was. He'd always prided himself in being a rational force, yet he was at a fork in the road where that faded --- and all that was left were smells, shadows, memories. He was knowingly caught in some nostalgic echo of an existence, where everything ahead of him was already past; and all that was to happen had happened once before. Only, and perhaps most importantly, there really was no other option at that point.
He chuckled, thinking over a particular image that just popped into his head. It was a few months after the government had introduced the Union as a solution to the fertility crisis, and all of the guidelines in how to act had been released. Vincent sat on a bench --- where he used to go every week with his grandma when he was little --- when a couple went by and sat on the bench next to him. They began talking, and as you sometimes inevitably do, your ears activate their seemingly instinctual eavesdrop-instinct. They talked about something important, but when taking a glance Vincent didn't really see anything out of the ordinary. They looked like they were talking, talking about what to get for dinner or the like. Only, the things they were saying:
"So I guess it's over."
"I love you, but ---"
"Maybe we can see when Union is over, what ---"
Vincent guessed that he didn't really understand what they were saying at the time, or at least he didn't understand it. It was a funny thought however, had they stayed together? Probably not. No one ever did anymore quite frankly, especially not after the government had their propaganda campaign the years following --- it was just more convenient both socially and personally not to. And Vincent was like that couple on the bench for a while after that, nonchalant about the whole thing. But then all it took were six words and that was over too. "Could you give me a hand?" she had said so innocently, or Vincent had been too innocent to notice her intent. He had never asked her if she had any intent, but he decided he would if she showed up.
A woman sat down next to him and sighed loudly as she leaned her head back and stared up at the roof. Vincent had missed seeing her approach by daydreaming again. A quick glance confirmed, however, that it was decisively not Sara who had sat down. He was disappointed yet weirdly relieved. Vincent had it planned out in his head: as soon as she would become visible among the crowd of people their eyes would lock, and ---
"Excuse me, do you have the time?" the woman beside him said, "My stupid phone is dead, and I can't see if there's a clock on the wall or something with all of these people running about."
"Yeah, sure" Vincent said, a little disoriented from going straight from his imagination to the real world, "It's twelve past."
"Twelve past what?"
"Oh, sorry. Twelve past... One.
"Thanks." She paused, "A little out of sort today, huh?"
Vincent breathed out of his nose and sighed, he felt a headache coming on, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Trust me, I know how you feel. I mean Union's great and all, but these last few days are always crazy."
"Yeah" Vincent said back. He wasn't feeling for small talk at all, yet those were often the times that those that actually wanted to talk to him attempted to do so. In addition to the headache he now felt a bit nauseous. Perhaps the egg salad sandwiches had turned. He hoped not. The more likely culprit would be his mind trying to find some reasons to excuse himself from this conversation he could sense she wanted to have, which he desperately wanted not to. Just as he was beginning to open his mouth he stopped himself. He needed to stay put, of course, for Sara.
"Done anything fun during Union?" she said, trying to rekindle the conversation from its shaky start.
"Sure. I always have a blast." Being forced to remain seated didn't mean that he couldn't be sarcastic.
"Me too." she exclaimed with that kind of fake hyperbolic tone, "I've always loved it since they started it. Kind of like a wellness regiment, don't you think?"
"Wellness regiment?"
"You don't agree?"
He smiled, "Why not year round?"
She looked taken aback, "Well... Because, otherwise there would be no time to raise the kids and ---" She began listing all of the propaganda they had been told over the years, and Vincent stopped listening.
"Those aren't reasons." Vincent said, interrupting her. He regretted it as soon as he had said it, but it was involuntary. And he knew that no matter the headache or the nausea that there was no stopping now that he had begun. He'd always been tremendously stubborn. He still hadn't decided if that was a vice or virtue yet. Perhaps he was stubborn on that too.
"Excuse me?"
"That list, those aren't reasons."
"Of course they are," she chuckled nervously, "What else would they be?"
"They're excuses."
"Excuses for what?"
"What are excuses, but a way for your mind to escape from the ugly truth that you know deep down are true? Alcoholics have their drinks, smokers their cigarettes, and lonely people like you and I are supposed to have our Union. We do these things not because there are reasons for them, but only excuses so that we don't have to deal with the real problem."
"And what would that be?"
Vincent looked at her for the first time since they began talking. She looked young, maybe 18 or 20. So young that she would only have vague remnants of a world without Union, a world with hope in something other than the last straw. Her eyes were icy blue, but looked a lot older than her. They were red, and had dark bags under. Either she had been up for three days straight, or was severely hungover from either alcohol or some kind of amphetamine. "Are your father and mother still together?"
"I'm sorry?" Her face was contorted and looked like she was ready to get up and leave any second, but with some small piece of curiosity holding her back.
"Is your father and mother still together?"
"No." she scoffed, "Why would they?"
"Why do you think?"
"Are you playing with me or something? Is this some kind of test of my loyalty or --- because I swear that that guy the other day, I didn't ---"
"No," Vincent said interrupting her rambling "I was just curious."
"Oh."
They sat in silence for a while and Vincent went back to observing the crowd, and going over the crowd. The headache returned, throbbing. The woman sat next to him picked up a book from her bag and began reading. Time passed, as it does. Then, as if no time had passed at all, perhaps as to ease the social awkwardness inherent in that delayed conversation, she suddenly closed her book.
"I'm Erica by the way."
"Vincent."
"So, Vincent, what brings you to this bench waiting for what seems an indeterminate amount of time?"
"What brings you?"
"Waiting for a bus, kind of obvious don't you think?"
"But not obvious for me?"
"No bag, no papers ---"
"Could have them in my pockets."
"Roses. Withered roses, too." she said, "Those kind of give it away. Funeral?"
"Think happier."
"Clown funeral?"
Vincent laughed, "That's dark." he said and smiled.
"Bad habit, perhaps."
He leaned forward and put his arms on his knees, "No, I'm just waiting for someone."
"Like your parents?"
"No, I'm waiting for a friend."
"A friend? A friend, and not friends traveling here during the last days of Union? I call bullshit."
"What's so hard to believe about that?"
"No one in their right mind would do that, it goes against all the regulations ---"
"They are not regulations, they're more what you call guidelines" he said with a hint of almost spitting the words out, like he was defending himself against some unspoken accusation.
"Interesting, interesting... I've never met someone like you before."
"Someone like me."
"I'm not dumb. Just because I don't remember it doesn't mean that I don't know what it is." she said, "You're waiting for a friend but not just any type of friend, are you?"
"Most people leave the bench when coming to that conclusion."
"Why? It's not illegal or anything. You don't have any of those germs right, that'll infect me with that love-virus?"
"Love-virus?"
"Oh right, you didn't grow up during the Union. The love-virus is that kind of thing that you give as an excuse not to be around boys."
"Gotcha." he said, pausing, "So you find it interesting? What's so interesting about it?"
She stretched her arms up in the air and yawned, "I don't know. I've never met someone like you before. Maybe that's it. And I'm curious so why not be interested? Besides, I've got nothing to do anyway before my bus in two hours, so why not?"
"Fair enough. What do you want to know?"
"I don't wanna know anything, per say, I'm just interested in what that feeling feels like. I mean you obviously wouldn't sit here talking to me unless you were interested in talking, right?"
Vincent fidgeted a little, "Well I've gotta begin somewhere, and I don't have any idea. It was you who brought it up after all."
"Well then, start at the beginning."
"The beginning... Well then I guess it all starts where most things end: with death."
You see both of my parents died in a car accident a couple of years back, and I was returning back home for the funeral. I wasn't in the mood for driving so I decided that I would take the train instead.
I boarded the train and sat down in my seat. It was one of those compartments that at daytime was a sitting arrangement, which then for the night transformed into a sleeping compartment. I had the window seat and I sat, with a bunch of roses between my legs, and looked out at the landscape whirring by. All of the hills seemingly rose and fell like the slithering of a snake. For some reason I started imagining Hercules running at the speed of the train along that snake of the earth at the same time as he was fighting its many hydra heads. Why he was running I hadn't yet figured out. The imagination always seems like such a great hiding place when reality is out to get you, especially if the imagination is in some place that you haven't figured out yet. A rudimentary self-created puzzle in a sense.
I had spent the days before in a drunken haze, it was the Union's heyday after all, which meant that everybody was still figuring things out --- including me. If I'm being honest everything wasn't that figured out in the beginning. It would seem that the inspiration most people picked were ill-conceived stereotypes of that mythical time of the late 60's, and there were enormous out-door free-for-all orgies in parks. Gluttony in its most sexual and ravenous form. Those weren't really for me, but there were plenty of more moderate places to go, and go there I went. And I would be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy it. Drinking all day, multiple women and men, no repercussions...
You know it's pretty funny, in a way, talking openly about these things. Nowadays it doesn't seem that strange to be talking with a complete stranger about these things. When I grew up that would've been a completely different story.
Anyway so there I was, imagining the trials of Hercules taking place on the hilltops whirling past the side of the train. As a head of the hydra was about to bite him from behind I was interrupted by a voice:
"Could you help me with this?" a tender voice echoed as if directly injected into my imagination, a voice that instantly made Hercules and his struggles dissipate like smoke. I turned and saw a woman holding a suitcase that looked like it contained bricks, puffing out of the sides --- something that I didn't realize was even possible with a hard shell suitcase.
"Sure" I said instinctively. I grabbed the bottom part with the wheels as she grabbed the handle at the top and jointly we pushed it onto the luggage compartment that was situated over the door.
"Thanks," she said, taking a seat opposite me, "just so you know I'm usually a light packer ---"
"Obviously."
She smiled, "But you know parents, right, they insisted I took all of these with me. Impossible to say no, you know?"
"Sure." I said as I began to drift away to the land of imagination once more, although the previous scenario --- like a dream --- had faded completely except for its lingering impression that it had been interrupted prematurely. From the corner of my eye I noticed her picking up a book from her shoulder bag. At the time I didn't read at all, frankly I didn't really understand it. I had been forced to read when I was in school, but at the time I for some reason thought that that was because the lessons in those books were necessary to function in modern society --- where fiction in general was to stimulate the lazy brain, the brain too lazy to imagine it for itself. Although now I realize, perhaps more than ever, that imagination alone is insufficient. It is the opposite of curiosity, because reading is curiosity about other people, while imagination is only being curious about yourself --- about the way that you think about the world.
So I sat in silence opposite her, trying to conjure up another image of a new scene. After many failed attempts I gave up and tried to take a nap instead. When that also failed I went to the dining cart to get a coffee. I figured that if I couldn't sleep then I would make damn sure that I was hyper-awake. As I stood in line I couldn't help but wonder at the content of her suitcase. Maybe it was some kind of juvenile thing, wanting and therefore ascribing everything happening around you some kind of magical 'Alice in Wonderland'-follow-the-rabbit scenario. I remember that I thought over the possibility of it being full of gold bars that she had stolen from a bank vault, and now when I returned with my coffee I would be met with a scene of two rivaling robbers arguing --- and thus I would be dragged into some kind of drama that would be resolved with me either being the hero and turning everybody in (except for the love interest which I would convince the police was innocent, of course) or me being the anti-hero and joining one of the robbers in a whirlwind of exciting Robin Hood-esque type of crimes. Another scenario involved some vials of some sort, I don't remember. Perhaps it is for the best. I'm getting off topic. As I returned to the compartment I wasn't greeted by a rivaling robber, much to my imaginations disappointment. She still sat in the same place, same position, performing the same movement with her hands as she flipped the pages of her book. I took my seat and continued sipping on my burnt, overpriced, coffee.
As with seemingly everything when I wanted my imagination to work it didn't, when I didn't care or if I really didn't want it to drift away to some fantasy it inevitably did. The landscape remained a landscape, featureless fields of various grains undulating as the elevation sank and rose toward the horizon. The sun was setting, and it was undeniably beautiful in a way; perhaps even objectively so. It didn't really matter though, seeing as I was bored out of my mind. I tried to imagine any possibilities, any story that could take place, but nothing ever emerged out of that void. Instead I found my eyes repeatedly drifting toward that person sitting opposite me reading. Drifting toward the way she chewed her lips as her eyes darted between the lines of the book, eager to go on with ferocious speed, as if simultaneously wanting to get to the end and not wanting it to end at all. Drifting toward the way she sat with one leg over the other, letting it dangle to the rhythm of the reading. My eyes jumped between those seemingly opposed scenes, but, there was no fighting it. Maybe it was some subconscious desire, like some would say. Maybe it was... Maybe it just was, and that was more than enough.
"I'm curious, how did you manage to pack that bag that full?" I said, which made her almost jump up in her seat, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare ---"
"No it's fine," she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, "I was just really in-the-zone. But what was your question? I missed the first part."
"I was just wondering, how were you able to pack your bag that full? I mean I would normally say that it's bursting at the seams, only, there aren't any."
She smiled, "First thing you do is to leave it up to your dad, and let him do the black magic for you. Second thing is that you don't open it until you're somewhere safe, like your bathroom" she closed her book and put it beside her, "You never know what might jump out at you."
"Like what?"
"I think this time it was... bed sheets?" Frankly I don't really know. They still have this notion of me as some helpless child, you know, so they always stuff my bags to the brim with the things they don't think I buy for myself. Pots, pans, socks..."
"My parents did that too when I was younger."
"I thought they would outgrow it, like I did, but mine never did. Who would've thunk that it were to be my parents that got stuck in arrested development?" she leaned back, "I'm Sara by the way."
"Vincent." I leaned across and shook her hand, "So where are you headed?"
"Cape Durmouth."
"Oh, you work at the institute?"
"Guilty as charged," she said, "granted there really aren't many other places to work there anymore."
"What do you do there?"
"Oh mostly judicial stuff, sort documents and the like. On some days I go into the labs where the research takes place and help some of the main researchers take notes and double check certain things. It's not glamorous or anything, but it pays the bills."
"Not glamorous? You're helping the entire human race by working there, what more glamour could you ask for?"
She chuckled, "It sure doesn't feel like that. I'll let you in on a little secret: " she leaned forward and cupped her hands, "all of the researchers, or supposed saints, are just like us --- if not more arrogant and selfish."
"Really?"
"Yeah, totally; most people there except for the janitors. They're all super nice."
"I'll keep that in mind if I ever find myself there."
"So, how about you? Where you headed? I'm guessing something to do with the flowers?"
"Normanville. And yeah the flowers are for my parents. They both passed away last week."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"They were lousy parents anyway. Besides, now with Union I won't have to worry, right? Parents, friendship, love --- all a thing of the past." I laughed a little maniacally, unsure why I had just said what I had; like some kind of unconscious primal utterance of some pent up emotions, or some psychological jargon like that. I looked up and saw a concerned look growing on her face, her eyebrows bunching up in a shape that was uncertain, the lines of her face tensing up as if to make sure that she didn't do anything out of line as to either entice me or offend me. Now in hindsight I reckon that she saw me more clearly than I did myself at the time, even if she had just met me. Oftentimes that's the way things are. You can't really say that you know yourself until you see yourself through the eyes of someone else, the eyes of a person that --- for some reason --- is interested in you because of you.
"You don't really think that, do you?" she said with a tone in her voice that was trying to find a balance between sensitive and inquisitive, "That love is no more."
"Isn't that what the institute says? Even if no explicit it is bloody well implied."
"I've always looked at it at the opposite way. That I work to preserve love."
I can't really say why, but that simple sentence changed me in some way. It took me a while to realize it, but once I did pinpointing that tipping point was easy. Certain things in life are vague and change gradually, where you start of at one place heading in some direction. The trip itself, except for the fact that you are moving, is something that you can't keep track of, no milestones to compare yourself to. One moment you're in the place where you started, and the next you are where you're headed. There's no in-between. There are no borderline cases. Only when looking back from the finish line everything behind you, every turn, every step, every little thing shows its contribution to the trip as a whole in the utmost clarity. For some reason that sentence was that tipping point for me. The thing that set of the realization that I had in fact finished whatever trip I had been on and was on my way toward the next.
The memories that take place strictly after are more precious, of course. How we sat and talked until the train rolled in to the station of Cape Durmouth, how we like teenagers danced around the question of the obvious electricity growing between the two seats in the compartment. How the air in the compartment smelled like wet wheat for some reason, something that I now therefore love the smell of. How I stared at the personal address written down right next to the embossed lettering of her office address on the back of her business card. Exactly how that last sip of cold coffee tasted that I instinctively drank when she had left. It was still almost nearly full. I had been so focused on the things in front of me that I had forgot it all together.
"And that's it." Vincent said, leaning back and looking over at the woman beside him on the bench. He was unsure if she had listened to his story, but he didn't really care that much anyways. Vincent knew that the way he was, the way he told his stories and talked to other people was something some people seemed to have difficulties with. Actually most people felt that way with Vincent's --- often --- long sprawling flowery descriptions of his reality which paid little mind to whomever he was speaking to. For a while, for most of his life even, he had tried to change it --- to cater himself to others, to define himself. There was a period even, where he had faded into others, where every piece of who he was lived through others, only, as time passed only then did he realize: if he existed only in virtue of others, did he really exist at all?
"That's it?" Erica said, "What about the rest of the story?"
"Storytelling 101: always leave your audience on the high point of the story."
"'High point'? That's only the introduction."
"You asked me what the feeling feels like, and I tried to describe it to the best of my abilities."
"Well I'm not convinced." she looked at her watch on her wrist, "I have half an hour before my bus. If you don't mind I would like for you to try to convince me."
"Try to convince you..." Vincent said as he looked across the now less crowded terminal, scanning for that familiar head of newly graying locks of hair. Of course, as he knew, nobody was there. "Well if you don't mind I could keep talking."
"I'd like that."
"I'm gonna have to warn you that I'm not the best at keeping my story chronological. I jump back and forth."
"Don't worry."
Vincent cleared his throat and took one last gander over the terminal. It was the last day of union, a day that he knew all too well. The day that she always had to leave. The day of promises, sleeplessness, and heartfelt goodbyes. This evening, however, was filled with nothing of that. Only the echoing of the shoes hitting the concrete floor bouncing against the concrete roof. And of course his voice now entering, drowned out in the vast ocean of clicking boot-heels.
It was early autumn, and it was an unusually cold day with some momentary hail falling outside the window as the train rolled into the station. As I walked on the exposed train platform I was clasping my corduroy coat in an effort to make it appear as if I was warm, seeing that I was shaking. But that wasn't a result of me being cold, not really. I was nervous, and if anybody in that city of sprawling cobblestone streets would've recognized me they would've been able to figure out as much, even if they were a psychology undergraduate of nineteen. Cape Durmouth, at least at that time, was a desolate place consisting almost solely of a nearly abandoned university, a dimly lit coffee shop, and a dimly lit bar next to the train station --- latter of which that I took advantage of. I went in and ordered a beer. I took it with me to the telephone that was in the back, dialed the number and waited. The bar was empty, except for myself, and the middle-aged waiter wiped the counter-top. It's funny how the mind focuses on certain things, especially as it ought to be focused something much more pressing. The dial tones of the telephone kept on ringing. It had been a few months since we had met on the train, and we had talked on the phone many times since. Mostly at night when I knew she was at home, something that for a while turned into somewhat of a routine. After getting home from work I used to exercise briefly, read a chapter from a book she'd recommended the last time we'd talked, make a quick dinner, shower (even though it was only a phone talk), sit down in my chair and dial her number. The conversations always flowed effortlessly, from the moment she picked up to when I listened to the disconnection signal beeping, something that I always used to wait for. This time it was different though. It certainly didn't feel effortless sitting there waiting. I was nervous.
I had just been traveling for work to Sandbury and on my way home I decided that I would take a detour to see her --- even though I had work the following day and would have to take a train throughout the night and go directly to the office from the train. I hadn't really talked to her about the idea, you see, it was supposed to be a surprise. I hung up the phone, she wasn't answering her home number --- which was unsurprising as it was only 3PM. I had only given it a call first seeing as I knew it would delay the inevitable, delay the possibility of rejection. I dialed her office number, and only after a signal or two I heard her voice:
"Hello, this is Sara."
"Hi, it's Vincent."
"Oh, Vincent! How are you? Don't worry, no one is here and no meetings for half an hour --- what's up?"
"Well... I'm here. I'm here at Cape Durmouth, I was traveling with work and thought that I would surprise ---"
"Well, that's great! Why don't you come over here, and I'll introduce you to the office? I'll walk you through the in-and-outs, all of the dirty secrets I've been telling you about..."
"Well, aren't those classified..."
"'Classified' is only a word to keep reporters, and questions out of it. I'll provide the questions, and since you're not a reporter I think we'll be fine." she paused for a moment, "What great news! What a great surprise! Come by reception, and I'll meet you there. An hour?"
"I'm at the train station now. I'm not sure how long that'll take me on foot."
"About an hour. Just follow the signs from the train station, it'll take you right here. See you soon."
She hung up. Now I don't want to pretend that we had some kind of telepathic understanding, because we didn't --- in fact we still are far from it. But I did sense that something wasn't entirely normal, like there was something with her tone, with the way I saw her face in my mind that made me think of someone talking while someone was looking over their shoulder. Someone trying to cover up a lie, or deliberate disinformation, by pretending that it had always been there. All of these thoughts, surely, didn't help with my anxiety at the time. My heart was beating faster than it should've. Sometimes I recognized that as a sign that I was doing something I should do, sometimes I recognized as a sign that I was doing something I shouldn't. Only this time I couldn't decide which.
At the time the complex sure didn't look like the supposed savior of the human race: there were four identical rectangular buildings, filled with identical windows all along their sides, lined up in rows --- connected by a small walkway between them all. The sides were made of mint-green glass, as to make it seem a little lively compared to its steel frame that were beginning to show the first signs of rust. Honestly it just made it worse, it made it look dirty. The interior was the same, like an illusion of cleanliness, only this time they choose gray for the glass panels, paired with an awful linoleum plastic flooring. I sat down at a bench besides reception and waited. People passed by in white lab coats. A janitor mopped the floor in the corner. I waved, and she waved back with a smile. Sara were right, they were nice.
After sitting ten minutes or so just observing the people passing I picked up a book, something that Sara had recommended. I was still new to reading at the time, so I wasn't the most attentive nor the fastest reader. She had given me 'Alice In Wonderland' and I, to the best of my ability, attempted to follow along. In retrospect her choice is quite humorous. Nonetheless it had been a hot topic of discussion for quite a few nights on the phone prior, and I distinctly remember those nights of discussion as I reread it nowadays. The flowery intonation of her voice in regards to certain characters, like the rat on the ocean of tears, and the somber reflection of the mad-hatter --- and his unused potential, of course. Like an echo from a distant voice those words of Lewis Carol carry me back to her, somehow. Just like the smell of cinnamon brings me back to when she wanted to show me how her family used to celebrate Christmas --- with semolina porridge, butter and cinnamon. Her loose-fitting Star Wars T-shirt she'd borrowed from me, how it draped over her as she so eagerly explained the in-and-outs of the family tradition. How her smile echoed throughout time and space to the core of who I was then, and for each moment nudged that person into someone else.
Now, this wasn't really something that I thought about as I was sitting on that bench outside of reception. I was trying to make sense of the Pigs' house in 'Alice in Wonderland', yet nonetheless I was interrupted by those memories. Books, in a sense, are like that. Reflections of (non)relevant memories, words that hit you in the face as you stand close to the mirror --- or in this case sitting on an anxious bench at reception --- to remind you of all the things you haven't, or have, done. Of all the lessons you've learned, from yourself --- but mostly from others --- but have yet to apply, or have applied and forgot. Of that voice on your shoulder that just won't shut up. Or that might've never spoken up.
The tour itself was uneventful. The laboratories, research halls, hallways and break rooms were --- as far as I could tell --- as normal as any other office that I'd ever been to. All of the really cool stuff was hidden away by screen savers and complicated passwords anyways. But Sara was anything but uneventful. There was something about every move she made that ambiguously screamed performed normality, which in itself was interesting to observe. Later, as we walked across the different hallways, and as I exclaimed my amazement at every thing she showed me, there was a quiet undertone, a quiet understanding between us that we would talk about whatever it was that was currently unspoken in rigorous detail. We finished the tour with her desk, which was filled with different papers --- some crumbled up into balls, some in neat binders --- and half-finished coffee cups. Her computer filled most of her desk, however. A large CRT monitor displayed a green ASCII cat running from left-to-right. I greeted some of her coworkers. It all, again, seemed forced somehow.
This changed, though, as she closed the door to her apartment. It was a single room apartment on the second floor with a balcony overlooking the street, with a small kitchen seemingly randomly placed right before the door to the balcony without any regard for interior design. Or at least that was the way that it looked to me. There wasn't any other furniture except for a large bed on the opposite end of the room, as well as some wall-mounted shelves that stretched across the entire apartment in different levels. Outside on the balcony was a dinner table and two chairs. Now nothing was all that special, maybe a bit empty perhaps, yet nothing that would've been deemed out of place for an eccentric lab scientist or poet. However there was something about it that made it infinitely uniquely her. I could glance at the way a few books were placed on her shelf --- in slight disarray --- and see her walking back-and-forth juggling the question of which book to read first as she bit her naisl, only to choose none and leave them there for the unforeseeable future. I could imagine the smell of onion and garlic fried in olive oil as the setting sun hit my face as I sat on the chair on the balcony, looking in to meet Sara's eyes as she stood hovering over the frying pan.
"So what do you think? I know it's a bit empty, but it helps me think for some reason."
"I like it. But I can't say why, exactly. I think it's because I see you everywhere."
"Is that to make me feel better?"
"If it does it's a bonus."
She hung her jacket on a hook beside the door and took of her shirt, leaving her with a tank top and her white work pants. She grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her kitchen counter and lit it up, "One of the better things in day-to-day life: this cigarette, "she pointed at it with her other hand, "after you've spent the entire day in that place of stuck-up people ---"
"Stuck-up people that save the world," I added as I made my way to open the balcony door, "you included."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess. But it feels good to just destroy a little part of it, even if it just me. It feels good to do the wrong thing sometimes, just to prove that you're alive, don't you think? Isn't that why we're both here?" She flicked ash out the open balcony window, "So I guess you're wondering about what was up with the office today. I'd be surprised if you weren't." she took a drag and blew the smoke out the door, "I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
"Don't worry. I was just getting to it. I greeted a janitor down in the lobby by the way. She seemed nice, and she waved back."
"Was it Donna? She's the best."
"Didn't get her name; dark hair, middle age, kind of stocky ---"
"Yeah. That's Donna. What a lovely woman. Ask her about her kid who lives in Philly next time and you won't be able to stop her from speaking highly of him. You can really see the love in her eyes."
"I'll make sure of that. But no, the office just seemed kind of off --- even if I've never been there before. If that makes sense."
"That makes perfect sense. I know I'm not myself when I'm there --- and as far as I know none of my coworkers really are either. It's just kind of the atmosphere there, but you get used to it."
"You know, I've never asked you why you choose to work there. I mean as far as I can tell you don't enjoy it very much, and you don't really praise the work that you do."
She flicked her cigarette out of the window onto the street, "Why is it contradictory for me to be critical of the company that I work for, while at the same time praising the work that we do? I'm proud of the work that I am doing everyday, the work that I am doing for humankind. But nonetheless I'm very critical of certain... things they like to say and do over and over."
"Like the things we do?"
"Yeah, like the things we do. It's a fundamental question, really: is humanity worth saving just by the fact of our very existence --- or are we worth saving because of the things that we regularly do? I'm in the latter camp."
"Like the things we do." I walked over and leaned at the counter beside her.
"Exactly like the things we do." She leaned her face in against mine, and we kissed. Afterwards her eyes lit up like roman candles against the sky, and nothing, nothing existed but that moment. Maybe those are the things that we do. The things that we can only explain in contradictory statements, yet that we live for nonetheless.
She was always a little bit of a philosopher, her assortment of Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Wittgenstein and other German sounding names on her bookshelf hinted as much. I've never been like that, I've always taken things at face value. But that changed after that night. It wasn't because of anything she said that was utterly revolutionary to my way of thinking, but it was as if the accumulation of ideas up to that point --- like the drops in a glass --- finally overflowed, and with it an entirely new way of looking at the world. A way of looking at the world through a series of questions, trough a series of whys and hows. It infects the way you perceive reality around you, shedding your preconceptions and stripping them down to bare metal, which is almost always ugly. That is until you contextualize it.
We laid that night in bed, listening to the hum of the roof fan, the gentle traffic rolling past, and the stale smell of ashtrays and cigarettes, and enjoyed the things that we do. In the morning I awoke to the sounds of her making coffee on the stove, sounds that were made with no holding back. Clanking the dried up remnants of coffee grounds from the moka pot tamper against the trash can as if there was no tomorrow.
"Make a cup for me."
"Sure. Join me at the balcony will you, the sun's out."
It was a fine morning indeed. The harsh air of the previous day had all but washed away, making way for that weird mix of an almost burning sun with the coolness of the breeze --- both of them working together to form a weirdly in-cohesive picture of whether or not one should wear a sweater, or stick with a t-shirt. Sara was smoking a cigarette and sipping her coffee.
"There's something that we need to talk about," she said, "something that I didn't really want to talk about last night. You see, I wasn't entirely honest about why everybody was so weird yesterday at the office. It was primarily because of a new policy they're gonna implement next month..." she paused, taking a drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. I knew she didn't want to say it, the cigarette --- like the nature of it --- is but a distraction. "they're moving all of us to a campus where we'll be staying for all months of the year, except for during union." She was shaking a little as she raised the cigarette to her mouth, "Apparently an executive decision from the president, as he wants all qualified personnel working pretty much across the clock. Something tells me that he's beginning to see the implications of what'll happen if we fail. Perhaps what he's thinking about is the eventual fallout than anything else."
"So then what will happen to us?" I attempted to find eye contact, but her eyes were darting from side to side.
"I don't know. I prefer not to think about it."
"How long have you known?"
"About a month."
Part of me wanted to get angry, but ultimately I understood her reasoning behind it. Thinking back I then realized that she had called me a few more times than usual, and during those calls she had been more attentive, as well as more nostalgic than usual. It all made sense when you thought about it. If you knew that a certain prosperous period of your life were about to come to an inevitable end, doesn't it make sense then that you'd want to stay in it just a little bit longer, just the way that you remember it? To 'rage against the dying light'?
"Well, it's not the end of the world --- is it? Just as some birds stick together and mate every season, despite remaining split up on the opposite ends of the earth for the rest of the year --- to eventually find their way back to each other by some animal instinct alone. We're just like that. Wasn't that how we met? And I mean, if birds can do it, then so should we, right?"
She smiled at me, "It's so hot when you're talking like that."
"What can I say, you've rubbed of on me." I said, "But what do you wanna do? I mean, you're going to be stuck in that laboratory, and I'm going to be out here."
"You make it sound like a prison."
"A prison with vending machines, maybe."
"Prisons have vending machines, I think."
"Well then a prison with more expensive vending machines. What I meant was that ultimately it is your choice."
"Why is it my choice? Shouldn't it be ours?" she took out a cigarette and lit it using her old one, before putting it out in the ash tray, "It's just... We need to be realistic. Ten months away from each other, and then we'll see each other for a little less than two months ---"
"Two months that we will stretch to twelve."
She sighed, "Let's be serious for a little, enough with the juvenile naivety. What the hell do we do?"
"We should at least try, would be foolish not to. But you're right, I think none of us can figure this out, right here, right now. We'll just have to improvise as we go."
"I know, I know, it just doesn't... feel like that. It's the thing in the back of my mind that either wants total knowledge about what is to happen, or total chaos. Like there is one part of me that's telling me that it's useless anyhow, and another screaming of all the sadness that inevitably will happen. If only I knew what was going to happen then I would probably be able to deal with it, but this in-between is really messing with me."
"We'll just have to try to power through it. You can call me whenever, 3AM, 12PM I don't really care. I'll make up some excuse at work, I'll make up for lost sleep later. I'm here for you, whenever you need me." I reached out my hands and grabbed her left hand. She put out her cigarette and grasped mine. I knew she was trying to smile, only, the tempest was wreaking havoc inside of her. She looked me sheepishly in the eyes with a plain expression, but somehow I knew what it really was that she was saying underneath all of those layers of doubt. It was the pangs of melancholy of trying to grasp the last moments of a fleeting memory, coupled with the realization that all moments are fleeting, which then culminates in the ultimate existential question: will I be remembered, and if so, by who? But if all moments are fleeting then so will those people eventually fade out, like Ozymandias in the sand. Everything that will be left are the faint echoes of the moments taking place right now. Holding hands in the early autumn sun, with a half-extinguished cigarette fuming out of the ashtray, and two half-drunk cold coffee cups.
The terminal had begun to empty out, and as a result the people that were left walked a little bit slower, checked the time a little bit less. It was almost eleven and there were no more buses coming in from Cape Durmouth, but Vincent knew that. The last bus had arrived a little less than an hour before, just as he was beginning to tell his story. He looked at the woman next to him, who was still listening attentively.
"That's it."
"You can't be serious. That's just another small slice-of-life. I want the whole story."
"I'm not a great story teller, am I?"
"You're a little full of it perhaps, but in lack of any other entertainment for the next..." she looked at her watch, "20 minutes, I'll have to make do. So what did you decide on next? What happened after?"
"Well, like with most big decisions everything changed, and then nothing changed. As I got home it seemed as if the entire world had flipped upside down. In the weeks following everything returned to normal, or perhaps a better way of putting it is that everything changed into normal. Normal is, after all, constantly changing."
"Well, for one, how long ago was this?"
Vincent looked a bit taken a back, as if it was the first real question that he'd answered, "Ten years since the first time we met."
"Ten years? Jesus. Even after all the Durmouth stuff you're still here ---"
"I'm still here."
"So you're a dreamer, that's what you're saying?"
"I trust people, that's what I'm saying. Especially if that person is Sara."
"Come on, if it's anything like the media says it's practically an impossibility that she's been outside the compound in the last five years."
"She's been with me every day for the last ten years."
"Don't be offended if I don't believe she's been sneaking out of the heavily guarded compound multiple times for the last five years."
"Well, does it matter? I've just spent most of my evening with you, recounting parts of our story."
"That's not the same thing."
"You're right. It isn't. But that wasn't the question. The question was, does it matter?"
"I'm not so sure I understand."
"There's undoubtedly a difference between experiencing something and remembering or reminiscing about something. But does that mean that she's entirely not here? I'm not so sure that I believe that's true, respectively. If anything she's more alive than she's been in weeks, in a way."
"So what, remembering is existing?"
"Remembering is remembering. That's all."
Erica paused, realizing that there was no arguing with the stubborn man next to her. At most she'd get a half-hearted admittance of being wrong, at worst he would shut down. She continued to entertain him, "If that's true, how about you tell another story? I don't have anything else to do."
"Another story... I'm not a story teller ---"
"You've said as much, multiple times. Yet I'm still here."
Vincent corrected his blazer, "Well..."
About four years ago during the heatwave we had rented a bungalow by the beach in Tulpaque. I think it was only a few weeks after we'd been there that it was engulfed by that sudden wildfire. Meaning the bungalows we'd stayed at, the buildings of the town we'd spent time and, most importantly and most sadly, many of its occupants had turned into coal. I like to think that it will be remembered as a snapshot of everyday life for some future historian, but then the cynical part of me rears its ugly head, asking the question on whether or not there will even be historians in the future. Human ones, at least. Because I mean who is to say that they, these hypothetical non-human historians, will do any of the same things that we do? Maybe they will, like we do with fossil fuels, just see it as something that's a natural part of this world --- something that just was, and is no more. But then again, most probably not. Because everyday life in Tulpaque wasn't something that one could mistake for a natural feature of the world, if anything it was an existence in defiance of anything resembling naturalistic. Something easily seen in looking at say how the beaches had transformed into plastic graveyards and very large ashtrays, or how the piles of garbage in certain unspecified corners of the streets turned into breeding grounds for various pests and parasites whose very existence relied on that we continued feeding them and not ourselves.
These are the things that I didn't notice at first, when we arrived. I merely saw a small sliver of paradise --- of Sara, the sun and the ocean. Of people stumbling down the waterway after having three glasses of wine and four beers for lunch. The way our hotel room smelled --- like dry air from the ancient air conditioner, and disinfectant. No, I didn't notice these things until Sara pointed them out. You see, she was painfully aware of these things because of her job. Every time she passed them I assumed they served as a reminder of the gargantuan task they needed to solve, a task that she had --- or perhaps should I say has --- an integral part in solving. This also meant however that even as we basked in the sun and swam in the ocean there was always at its background some sort of bitterness lingering in the back of my mind. I saw the way her face contorted as a small piece of plastic floated past us, while she probably saw my face twist in some way as I attempted to take back control of the situation and focus on the fun we were having.
Later we were at a cafe by the beach drinking coffee with rum, and I asked her "Don't you get a little bit uncomfortable seeing things like plastic floating around the ocean, or the piles of garbage you pointed out to me earlier?"
She took another sip of her coffee, "Uncomfortable... No. Saddened, yes. But I've already accepted that. You see..." she paused, "I don't think I've ever told you why I went into genetics right?"
"I don't think you have." I grabbed the waiters attention and ordered us a couple of Pina Coladas.
"Thanks. Well this is connected with all the shit I went through when I was a teenager --- like I've told you about. Well, in those dark years where I mostly walked around in some form of aimless haze there was no topic more on my mind than death. Not only had both my parents passed away, but my brother drank himself to death soon after --- in a manner that I suspect he saw as 'poetic'. Unlike him, however, I never wished to die. I didn't see what could ever be 'poetic' about it. In fact I was terrified of it. What terrified me even more was the aspect that nothing I'd ever done, or ever would do, would be remembered after I died. Not only that but also humanity at large. The real question running through my mind was if there is no one to remember anything that anyone has ever done, then what point is there to do anything? It was a terrifying question to face when you were in the sort of state I was in then."
"How did you get out of it?"
"I didn't. I just accepted it. That everything we've been so careful to manufacture --- all of our institutions, our traditions, our culture ---- are merely distractions from the ugly truth. We will die, and eventually we will all be forgot, regardless of whatever it was that we accomplished. Whether that is tomorrow or in two hundred years. Or 500 million years, as a result of the eventual heat death of the universe. We tell these stories so that we can avoid accepting that we are afraid. That we are afraid to die. But the world, importantly, stays the same. And that's why I went into genetics."
"I'm not so sure I understand. You went into genetics because you realized that there was no meaning?"
"There is meaning, all right. Only it isn't in the form that we usually think it is. The meaning is all around us. But, perhaps most importantly, it goes between me and you right now. It binds us together, and no matter what happens that fact remains for the moment. The reason I went into genetics isn't because I wanted to be remembered as some kind of everyday hero --- if we succeed that is --- but because I believe, present-tense, in humanity. Yes, we are anxious beings that constantly do the wrong things. Yet we still live on for those fleeting moments where there is nothing else but that in front of you." The waiter dropped of the drinks on the table, "Like these Pina Coladas! Thank you."
"That's some heavy stuff."
"Yeah..."
We continued sipping our Pina Coladas, we laughed and we talked. She brought out a book and started reading. We went back to our bungalow. We went out and ate dinner. We slept. In other words the rest of the day was a day like any other on vacation. In fact the remaining days we had were much like that. After that conversation I, at least tried, stopping second-guessing everything and Sara she... well she remained the same I guess. Which is most certainly for the best.
But then the time came for heading back, and much like when we met, we had an identical compartment on the train just for the two of us (we had in fact bought all the tickets for it, for the privacy). There was a kind of unspoken agreement between the two of us that we'd preserve that memory as we sat there, as if it was on display.
We both sat silent most of the trip, somewhat realizing the fragility of that moment. Not only had she spoken previously at the train station about some rumors a-brewing at the office of a presidential order --- something that we both mutually agreed to leave unspoken --- but also just the moment itself. Looking outside the window I again saw Hercules battling the hydra, but this time the hydra and he were dancing, like the heads were the arms of Shiva, to the tune of Ray Charles in the kitchen of my apartment at midnight. In other words it was a multifaceted version of that familiar shadowy image. I can't say what she was picturing (if anything), but I can tell you about the way it seemed to me. There was the way she laughed periodically, as if something had taken place. There was the way she periodically pushed her hair behind her ear. The way she smiled at me when she caught me staring. The way her face looked as she fell asleep, and the sound of the train as it chugged along. The sound of the train pulling into the station before Cape Durmouth. The musician humming some tune as he pulled out his guitar out of the baggage department right outside of our compartment. The way I woke her as softly as I could by stroking her cheek. Her smile as I did so.
Certain things stay by you forever, remain ingrained in your very bones. Certain things stay with you forever. But like a dream most things are eventually forgot. I couldn't say what clothes she was wearing on that day. I couldn't honestly tell you the color of her eyes. I can't say what we told each other as she got off. I know that I stood by the window and she waved until she was out of sight, but what we said to each other before she got off still remains a mystery. But there was still ---
"I'm sorry, but I have to go." Erica said as she began standing up, which to Vincent was a jarring experience --- taking him from some distant place of magic back to the now deserted bus station with the not so small exception of the bus standing in front of their bench, "But I really enjoyed your story. Give my regards to Sara if she shows up." Without Vincent being able to respond she entered the bus and took her seat, waving toward Vincent as the bus drove away.
Vincent sat on the bench for a few more minutes after that. Any more than that seemed unnecessary. There were no more buses to arrive, but that had been the case for a while. Perhaps more importantly there were no more people to talk to.
Walking home it started to rain, but Vincent didn't really care. It was a wonderful night, where even despite the fact that it was raining, the moon shone clear and danced along its own reflections in the pools of water running down the streets. It was one of those nights that perfectly reflected the way one is feeling at that particular moment, a perfect extension of ones body into another part of the world. But this was of course not exactly how Vincent thought about it, because then it wouldn't have been a perfect reflection. No, he thought about the things that he had told of that night --- of the images now flashing before his eyes. Dancing along the reflections of the pools of water that he destroyed the moment he trod over them. The story that he had helped create during the evening was now echoing across, like that miniature midnight ocean of crests and troughs. There was a piece of him that felt like crying, yet he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was he felt like crying about. He attempted to pinpoint it by specifying particular images but none of them particularly stuck out to him. Yet, the moon shone on his face clearly --- drenched, with an indistinguishable mix of rain and tears. That moment of unconscious introspection, as suddenly as it had begun, ended and he picked up his pace as to get out of the rain faster. He was starting to get cold.
The picture frame beside his nightstand watched him as he got inside the door and as he changed his clothes. Vincent sat down on the edge of the bed and faced it, picking up a piece of paper and a pen from besides it. After a moment of hesitation he instinctively began writing.
I can't deny it in these nights of waiting. It will return, whether it is on this paper, on the reflection in the mirror, or on the words I shout across the rooftops. It will return as I hear the distant drum beating. It beats a faint hum that only can be heard from those who listen, and from those who can speak it.
The moon shone in from the window.