Saturday, November 28, 2009

Waiting for the Sirens' Call

Nineteen days after. “After what?” he thought to himself. Every damn day is the same. What’s the point in defining distinction to a specific day?

“I’m tired of your fatalism,” she said to him as she reached her hand out for a moment.

He looked down and agreed that she most likely was tired of him and his attitude. He felt like a cancer that was slowly eating away at all of his relationships. “Why don’t you go then?”

“I think I will. I need some air. I need some sunshine in my life.”

And with that, she turned quickly, slid her arms into her waist length jacket and opened the front door. She turned back to him from the doorway first and watched him for a moment. He was sitting on the chair with his elbows on his knees and his head facing the carpet, ignoring her. She thought about saying something conciliatory, but decided against it. Instead she walked out and shut the door quietly behind her.

He took a deep breath and finally looked up. He kept focusing on this idea that nothing ever changes. Why is that? She had made her ultimatum and nearly three weeks had passed. He couldn’t remember what she threatened or what the timeline was. Maybe his deadline had already come and gone. Maybe he was once again too late. He remembered some words similar to “next step” and “advancing” coming from her lips, but didn’t really pay any mind to them. She had always been alluding to such things - like anything progresses. She was always asking him what he was waiting for. Wasn’t the answer obvious?

He stood up and stretched. He did feel a pang of guilt that he was relieved that she finally left. He knew she would be back. Her stuff was still there. He walked into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards for something to snack on. There was nothing that caught his fancy. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anyway. He laughed to himself, when he realized that she would’ve known exactly what he would’ve wanted for a snack. She would’ve created something where from these random items and it would’ve quelled the pit in his stomach for another stretch of empty time. Why would she do such a thing? Was she simply trying to prolong his agony, or her own?

He left the kitchen and shuffled into the other room again. He had arranged the room, so that there was a variety of seating surrounding a large low square table. The side along the wall was lined with a couch, while the other three sides were lined with mismatching chairs. He flopped himself onto the couch and placed his cheek onto his hands. He watched the door over on the empty side of the front room. Maybe if he could fall asleep he could eat up some more time – to find a way to get through another day.

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