"The train has just departed, please..."
I missed the train.
Of course I had to miss the god damn train. Because that's just like me. So like my character.
So much it's actually depressing.
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What I was looking for
First impressions are important because every impression that comes after the first derivates directly from the first, changing it (for better or worse), mutating it or just staying the same.
The point is, in case you're not a person who is honest and confident with and in yourself, you should invest in making a good first impression.
Missing your first day of work is not a good example on how to make a good first impression.
Which means, summing it up and saving us a lot of time, that I'm fucked.
Really fucked.
And to remediate my situation, I'm doing my best at sitting in the steps of some building that happens to be in front of the train station, looking at people passing and secretly wishing I had their life because their life is undoubtedly better than mine.
This is to say I'm doing fucking nothing and am instead just wallowing in self-pity like an adult, responsible man should.
What would other people do in my situation? Try to fix it, no doubt, but how? The only solution that passed through my mind was sitting here and wallow in self-pity.
I wish I was one of those people who can move mountains, that can bend the flow of things so they go their way. But I'm not and instead I let myself be driven by the flow.
I'm pretty pathetic.
I should worry about doing things right; I've never worried about such, but recognize I should as it is, after all, a very right thing to do.
In order to accomplish such merit, I decided to not only look miserable on the inside but also on the outside, by adopting corporal language that suggests it, such as lowering my head into my palms so that I look like a little girl who can't find her way back home. This way my psyche matches my appearance, which makes me a very transparent person, which is a very right thing to do.
Or I should just cut the excuses and look miserable because I want to.
Sitting like that, crouched and with eyes closed against my palms, I could feel the people passing, their presence a constant reminder of the physical world and of a reality I cannot escape.
I've never been good at dealing with my problems, so when faced with one, the solution that immediately comes to mind, falling into my consciousness like a bomb dropped from the highest of heights, is to run and forget. Pretend it never happened.
Although this might seem like an easy thing to do, it actually requires the strength of mind to fight back the constant nagging of the consequences of your actions. Because "pretend it never happened" isn't quite as effective nor as definitive as "it never happened", so the fact that it did indeed happen remains a constant reminder in my head until the fateful moment when I find myself in another problem so I end up forgetting my previous one.
I'm not even making sense anymore.
But perhaps always resorting to this cheap escape route is what set this volcano off; perhaps I overused this and now I have no other solution but facing my problems. It sounds like a character development flag, although if I did have a choice, I would run away from that too.
Should I do a retrospective of all the problems I had to run away from and how I should have dealt with them were I a responsible, mature person? How much better everything could have been, how much I would've grown as a person, how many regrets I would've spared? How many friendships I would've kept, like the one with–
"Gilbert?"
No, that isn't quite right; I never had a fight with Gilbert. I've never even had a friend named Gilbert. Wait, what?
Without really thinking, without really caring about the consequences of such fast, immediate reaction, I look up to see–
"Elizaveta?"
And it was Elizaveta indeed; she looked like the same Elizaveta I've always known. If I hadn't known that time did, indeed, pass, I would have never guessed. And I most certainly would have never guessed that I would meet her here, an unfamiliar place, on such a gloom, unfortunate day at the most unexpected of times.
And right when I had already long-lost any hope of seeing her again.
"What are you doing here?"
"Is that really the first thing you want to ask after all these years?"
Her reaction answered my question ("no"), as if just now did she realize what she had asked and realized it rather sprung out of her mouth instead of thinking it out.
"Oh, sorry…the question just popped out of my mouth without me really thinking…but since I did ask it, why not answer?"
Because I don't want to, obviously. "I'm very busy wallowing in self-pity on this fine day."
And then she just– cracked up. She started laughing uncontrollably with a tinge of awkwardness, earning us the stares of the passers but also lifting the cloud of melancholy that seemed to have befallen me on that day.
"What's up with that reaction?"
"It's just…" – she coughed and recomposed herself – "It's been so long since I last saw you and you haven't changed at all…and it's just refreshing to know that, because lately it seems that everything has changed, as if I can count by my fingers the things that haven't changed, and I'm glad you're one of them."
Thanks for calling me "a thing". "Right back at you, you're still a hysterical hyena who likes to laugh at other people's misery."
That probably wasn't the right thing to say, because she made a face that I know all too well: the "You want to fight?" face. Wisely, after years of knowing what comes after that face (too much first hand experience), I decided to shut up and hope for the best.
Fortunately for me, Elizaveta decided to drop the subject and satiate her curiosity instead:
"Anyway, what business do you have around this area? Isn't this far from your house? You never used the train station either…Oh, assuming you still live in the same house."
"Yeah, yeah, I still do live in that shitty place. I don't know why, I guess moving is just a lot of trouble. And why don't you explain yourself first? You've always complained about how ungentlemanly I am, so here you go: ladies first."
She scoffed. "How typical of you: remembering things only when it's most convenient to you. Well, since you must insist, I'm here because I work here." She said, raising her index finger.
I followed her raised finger, which pointed to the fancy building behind me, whose steps I happen to have been sitting on for the duration of this unexpected rendezvous.
"You work here? What in the world do you do?"
"I'm a lawyer." – she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Really? It is surprisingly…fitting."
"Is that a compliment? I never know, coming from you."
"It is, actually. You've always been a very righteous person, one that draws a line between good and evil, right and wrong, black and white. Therefore, that job quite fits you."
"I see that your little arrogant self has grown enough to actually learn how to properly compliment others."
"Is that a compliment? I never know, coming from you."
She laughed again – "Touché."
She was now sitting next to me, as if nothing ever transpired between us, as if we never broke apart, as if the past five years, the years I spend without seeing her even once, were just a mirage, and an absurd one at that.
"Your turn now, what are you doing here?"
I look at her to find that she's looking at me with those penetrating eyes, the ones that I find most difficult to confront, and the ones I've run away the most. I decide to look forward once again, watching the passers.
"I missed the train to the first day of my new job and instead of trying to find another mean of transportation to get me to my destination, I decided to sit here and regret my life choices."
She didn't say anything for a while, as if I had truly surprised her, as if she never would have imagined even I would go this far.
"You're seriously the only person who would do that."
"Thanks, that's comforting."
"What do you want me to say? You're as irresponsible as ever."
I won't deny that.
She sighed.
"What job do you have, anyway? Or had, probably."
"Wow woman, you sure know how to hit it where it hurts don't you?"
"I learned from the best."
I clicked my tongue. "I got a job as a math teacher in a middle school on the other side of the town."
This time, her mouth actually fell and "surprise" was written all over her face. Not that surprised reactions to this statement come as a surprise to me, as it has happened several times before and it is, well, expected.
"You?! A math teacher? How did you get that job?! Wait, never mind that, who got you that job?"
"I got it by myself with self-merit and hard work, thank you very much. Seeing as math was the only class where I was actually pretty good, I decided to invest in it and...well, I kinda dig kids, so I thought this job would be good for me."
"Really? It's quite hard to believe, actually. I mean, I think you like kids because you are a kid yourself, and therefore find yourself at home with them. I can't really imagine you being responsible and a role model to them. Plus, I never really saw you as a numbers person. Not that I saw you as a words person either."
"I don't think I'm ready or prepared, or that I'm even fit for this job either, but what can I do? I'm not all smart and responsible and mature like you. In fact, you're right, I'm a kid. But my age isn't in accordance to that, and according to my age, I need to assume responsibilities and get a job no matter if I'm ready or not, or even if I want to. I just gotta do what I gotta do, and right now that means getting a job and paying the bills."
For a while, she didn't say anything. She just looked down, as if letting my words sink in and absorbing them, seeing this subject from my perspective. "I'm sorry", she quietly said.
"No, I apologize. I didn't really want to make the mood all heavy. Plus, it's no big deal, just something I had to deal with. And I did manage to get a job, which is amazing enough as it is."
She sketched a nostalgic smile before agreeing "True, true.".
"Hey if you don't see me as neither a numbers person nor a words person, then what kind of person do you see me as?"
She took no time no think and answered with a devious smile: "Honestly? A loser kind of person."
Therefore, in unwanted retaliation, I too took no time to think and instead said something I really, really regretted: "No wonder I stopped being your friend."
Humans evolve as humans because they commit mistakes. The secret is simple: never commit that mistake again. Learn from your mistakes so that next time you'll know how to act and not fuck up really badly what could have been a nice reconciliation after years apart.
With that thought in mind, I looked at her expecting to see that furious expression that seemed to be her permanent expression towards me during our adolescence, but what I found was an expression that could only be simply described as...sad.
Elizaveta looked sad. Sad like the moon softly crying rain into the night, in hopes nobody will discover that the moon doesn't actually like the dark.
And, like the idiot I am, I just stared at her, wanting to self-flagellate myself for making such a rude, inopportune comment such as that one.
Her eyes turned to me, the forest green of her eyes turning into light-filled companions to the lonely moon, illuminating the night, and for the umpteenth time today, she surprised me:
"Why were we apart for so long?"
Because I ran away.
"I don't know Liz…I guess we grew up; I turned into a senseless, cowardly idiot, you turned into a decent, proper girl and we just…grew apart. Oh, and I made rude comments about you and you stupid boyfriend in front of the whole school, you got mad and moody, perhaps we can blame your period for that too, and we just sort of started an half-assed rivalry. And at first I was quite invested in it too, I spent quite some time thinking up the best insults to throw at you and piano-boy, but one day you just matured and started doing the right thing, which was ignoring me and we lost contact. This puts us where we are now."
"Apart from the totally unnecessary and clichéd comment about my menstruation cycle, that was a quite accurate retrospective of our adolescence." She leaned back and let her hands cover her eyes. "God, teenagers are so stupid."
"Yeah, we were."
There was no formal apology, no heartfelt letters or confessions, no "I missed you" or any comments of the sort, but this sudden encounter, this long-lost postponed conversation felt like the older days, the days when we didn't care about labels or other people's conceptions about us and our relationship, when we were just two kids who didn't care about gender roles, who were mad and fighting one second and wordlessly making up in the other, a time when we could be each other's best friend without worrying about what was coming next.
A time with no expectations or responsibilities.
Our time.
And to make it all the more authentic, I wish she'd just punch me in the face like she used to.
"Shit, look at the time!"
I was just thinking about it, but it's probably not the same time you're talking about.
"I'm late to work!"
"Yeah, I know that feeling."
"Here I was, carelessly talking to you and now I'm as late as I've never been to work. Your influence really is bad."
"Sure, blame it all on me."
"I want to but I won't, because it would be inaccurate and childish."
"How very mature of you."
"Thank you."
She stood up and dusted off her skirt. Only now did I notice that she was wearing a suit. Very lawyer-like. Very unlike Elizaveta.
"That suit doesn't suit you at all; I guess you weren't suited for this kind of suitoations."
She made an unimpressed face at me, probably the result of wanting to laugh but realizing the joke is about her, and more specifically, how something doesn't look good on her. For a moment I thought she was just going to just walk off, dismissing our heartfelt reunion as nothing but another forgetful event in her life, but then–
"Give me your hand."
I look at my hand out of instinct. "What for?"
She took out a pen out of her jacket and insisted on her request. "Just give me your hand."
I apprehensively moved my hand toward her. "Are you going to draw dicks on my hand? I thought you had enough of that when we were younger."
"Precisely, I want to revive the good old days" – she said while writing something I couldn't quite see. – "There."
I looked at my hand to see a combination of numbers.
"If you didn't already guess, it's my phone number."
I look at her, perplexed, wondering about the meanings of such action. And perhaps that was inaccurate; it's not exactly the meanings I'm wondering about, because I've already got a handful of possible meanings thought out. What I'm wondering about is which one actually corresponds to the truth.
Made aware of my perplexity she stepped forward, no longer caring about the so imposed safety distance that became imposed on us for some inglorious, unknown reason and cleared it out: "It's so we can set out a day to go out for drinks or something. You know, make up for the lost time."
"Oh."
"Is your number still the same?"
"Uh, yeah, yeah it is."
"Great then."
And so she turned, her last comment made into a "goodbye", or perhaps a "see you soon", if my hopeful thinking is anything to go by.
I'm afraid of failing again, of letting time pass by and consume me, of this silent made-up, of this frail tentative at mending our relationship being all for naught, but looking at my hand I understand that the solution to not let such fears turn to reality is, literally, in my hands. I just need to act, to do something, to not expect things to fall from the sky, for this encounter was the only thing that was, indeed, given to me as a last chance to mend myself, to evolve from this vegetative state I put myself into, to actually change what I've been wanting to change in this tasteless, regret-filled life of mine.
The key is taking what little is given to us and turning it into something bigger and better. And if you fail at first, don't give up. Stand and fight for another round, through blood and tears until you find what you're looking for.
And it took me all these years and missing a train to realize that.
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Without thinking much about it, I dial the number written in the palm of my hand.
"Hello?"
"How about coming over for dinner? I forgot to mention that besides math, I'm also good at cooking. That makes two things I'm better at then you."
"How would you know? You never tasted my cooking."
"Considering how it is most likely poisonous and hazardous I don't think I want to."
"Is that a challenge? Well then we'll change the meeting place to my place and we'll see who the better cooker is."
"Challenge accepted. Do you still live in the same place?"
"Same old."
"Good. I'll see you there."
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Author's Note: I imagined this scenario in my head and things evolved from there. I'm not really sure where I was going, though. Nowhere, most likely. I might or not consider doing a continuation/sequel to this. I don't have any specific plans (I don't have any plans) but it's an idea I might dive further into. Motivation would help, of course.