A/N: Real-life musings, through the voice of a fictional character.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Tonight, I watch Jane.
The way the shadows fall across his face. The stubble that has appeared there since this morning's 6 AM work call. The shape of his arms, folded behind his head. The creases in his shirt sleeves. The gradient of color in the locks of his hair. The lines of his body, stretched out on the leather sofa.
The lives contained within the folders on my desk – broken, damaged lives – fade into insignificance as I study the gentle rise and fall of my consultant's chest through the glass window. The suffering that the world contains, the pain that I am privy to every day, the injustice of it all - I find it to be soothed away by the simple presence of this man in my office. In my life.
The idea that Jane is my constancy in this world makes me smirk inwardly, but the smile does not reach my face. Any form of permanence is better than none. I crave stability. This I do know about myself.
The long arms slide out from beneath the blond curls and stretch. I hurriedly duck my head downwards, yank open the file on my desk – but I need not worry, because the arms fold comfortably across the chest before them, and the blue eyes remain hidden behind eyelids darkened by exhaustion.
Tonight, I realize that the TV shows and movies are cruel.
The relentless dance of characters, constantly unsure of where they stand in each others' lives, afraid of reaching out in the chance of being rebuffed – the stories of unrequited attraction or empty relationships, of lost romance and forlorn lovers – they have no peace, any of them. What they have is a painful existence. This is not life as it is meant to be lived.
Why can't they just let them be happy, those fictional characters? If they are my escape, let them already be where I wish I could go. Granted, it is easier for me to emotionally invest in the traumas of their lives than of my own – for they do not exist, they don't walk and breathe the air that I do – and yet I find lately that their stories only make me sad.
Tonight, I imagine Jane.
I imagine him brushing his teeth in the morning, most probably fastidious about his daily methods. I imagine Jane in the grocery store, browsing for fresh vegetables in the produce section. I imagine Jane mowing the lawn in front of his house. I think that I would like to sit on his front steps and keep him company. I wonder if he would want me there.
He is sad, this man – and yet he smiles at me so often. At everyone, I suppose. Charms his way in and out of situations with the absolute ease of one completely confident in his own skills. Are the smiles that he grants me the same as those received by everyone else? I feel a bitterness at the idea.
Tell me where I stand, Jane. Tell me who I am to you, what this is.
But you and I know, don't we, that it is better that you don't.
For a moment, I allow myself to picture having dinner with Jane. The shared repast is nothing novel – it has been done many times -but the affectionate camaraderie and open sentiments that I imagine between us stirs my heart.
Tonight, as I leave the office, I lean over and kiss Jane good night in the safe recesses of my mind.
For the moment, that is all I have, and it will have to be enough.