She speaks with her former lover in second person, plural. He has become a sir, a stranger that must be addressed accordingly. How heartbreaking is that?
"Souvent je pense encore à vous/ Often I still think about you,
Je crois qu'un jour vous allez revenir/ I believe one day you will be back,
Vous jetter à mes genoux/ Throwing yourself at my knees,
M'implorer de ne plus vous maudire/ Imploring me not to curse you anymore,
Me dire vos regrets de nous/ Telling me your regrets about us."
(Les Voiliers Sauvages De Nos Vies – Vaya Con Dios)
I can't bear to see his handwriting anymore. The pain gets so intense, I feel like screaming. The way he writes, decisively, leaving indentations on the sheets beneath is like a trademark. His signature, firm, angular, seems to be alive, almost like an alien entity. It can still bring all those inert documents to life, his indications, his instructions, his resolutions moving the papers, moving the men, moving the entire plant forward.
It's as though he were still here and I just can't stand the sight of his handwriting anymore.
What's more, I have to white-out his name of all the pending contracts that at the moment of his departure were waiting to be signed. It's bitterly ironic that I, of all people, have to do it and cause the slow vanishing of his name, letter after letter, under the white fluid. A torment in itself. I do it, and my hand trembles and my heart is heavy, weighed down under an ocean of lead.
In his office, vacant now, people walk on tiptoes. The desk is abnormally tidy. No one dares to sit in his former chair. The poor guy replacing him is exhausted after two days. How did he manage, I wonder?
I walk like a zombie in the dark hallways and cannot find my place. I am an automaton, made of tearless, petrified pain. I try to work hard, try to concentrate, to be conscientious and reliable but I can barely keep my face collected. I wish no one addressed me, I wish I were invisible, able to move here and there unseen, unheard, only with my ear-buds on and the pain tearing me asunder.
I can't think of him in past tense because my chest gets tight, really tight, like crushed in a vice screw. I can't think of him in future tense either. There is no room for hope and that reality is just as brutal. I can only cling to the present, like an empty shell, like a mannequin.
My phone rings.
"Have you seen an invoice from Johnson?"
The voice on the other end is smooth and pleasant. Profoundly male. Unmistakable.
I search through my mind hastily, surprised by the unexpected question.
"No, no, I haven't."
"Could you please check?"
"I don't need to check, I haven't seen it."
"I think what you meant was: I will check but I don't remember seeing it."
His authority extends only partially over my position. But of course, as the plant manager, he's everyone's boss.
"Yes, sir! That's what I meant, but the words haven't come out in the right order."
The reprimand doesn't put me off. I'm slightly amused by this apparent rigidity. He had to educate and discipline too many before me.
He's an extraordinary man and an excellent leader, well respected, feared on occasions, revered on others. I'm not impressed with his position though; I'm impressed with the way he handles himself within the boundaries of that position. He has an uncanny ability to use his presence and commanding yet subtle personality to great effect. He's cocky but in a fine, aristocratic way.
And I'm impressed with what I sense that is lying beneath the manager façade, the human traits, the masculine traits.
I smile as I go searching for the damned invoice, although I know from the start the search to be futile. When I inform him about it, I do it in a manner that makes him laugh.
I always feel so good when I make him laugh…
I have these urgent documents that must be signed. His secretary says he's alone and I step quietly into the inner sanctum. He's on his cell, reading glasses on. He exudes an air of latent power and infinite remoteness. I retreat just as silently and wait patiently in the reception, like a good girl, the papers on my lap.
Seconds later, the door opens and without caring who else is around to hear, he says softly, in that tone that makes my head spin:
"I'm all yours."
I follow him in, my legs and mind on auto pilot.
I hand him the documents.
"What is this?"
He asks the question although by the time he finishes it, he has already scanned the entire sheet of paper and knows its entire content. It's just one of his numerous tests. He writes down his approval in that peculiar handwriting of his and when he gives the papers back, our hands touch for the briefest of moments.
That's where my crazy courage must have come from.
"Are you by any chance going to the Capital tomorrow?"
"No, I am not."
I nod in acknowledgement and head for the door.
"Why? What do you need?"
"I must attend a videoconference there at noon."
"With whom?"
"With Belgium."
"How will you get there?"
I shrug, nonchalantly.
"By bus."
He nods silently and I'm dismissed.
Late that afternoon, he calls me into his office. He needs some contracts, in hard copy, to study them. Then, he wants them scanned. Tomorrow, if I'm tired now. No, I'm not. I'm only too eager to please him.
Briefly I wonder if he is repulsed or touched by this involuntary display of obedient readiness.
The scan is too big for an email attachment so I put the files on my flash drive, then take it to him. He looks at it.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes. It's my own."
"Aren't you in Procurement?!"
I say something stupid that makes him laugh. I'm too affected by his presence to be intelligent. Maybe I should settle for funny instead.
"Here. Take this one."
He pulls out from somewhere a brand new flash drive, all big and shiny and smart.
I take it, muted, almost overwhelmed. On my way out, I hear him calling me back.
"Isabella…"
"Yes, sir…"
"Tomorrow morning, come here. There'll be a car ready to take you to the Capital."
Of course, that means an extra hundred kilometers to cover, but I'm not about to complain. I'm just too damn happy to have this amazing man's attention focused on me.
"Thank you, sir. And thank you for the flash drive."
The small inanimate object means nothing except everything because it's from him. I still carry it in my shoulder bag, unopened, to this day. It's my porte-bonheur, my lucky charm.
I dress more carefully the next day. I must look presentable to our bigger and better corporate brothers, mustn't I?!
I'm wearing black pants with black boots and even to my own derisive eyes, I look alright. And we do intersect in the dim, empty corridor, just he and I, like in one of those strange, coincidental circumstances from Almodovar's movies. And although I rise my eyes only long enough to steal a glance at him and give him "good morning", and although he's equipped for inspecting the plant with all sorts of stuff that hinder his sight, I can still see him checking me out.
I'm not a beauty, never was, never will be. Not even remotely coquette. But there are moments, sometimes and only sometimes, when I feel extraordinary about myself. And right then and there, as I unlock the office door, for short, glorious seconds, I'm completely drunk with my womanly power.
Before long, it's time to leave for the Capital. I'm agitated but it is not unpleasant; a little regretful for having to spend the day away. I'm waiting for him in the dimly lit corridor to alight from his car and enter the building, in order to remind him of the promised vehicle. He has so much on his mind, that sometimes it's necessary to jog his memory.
"Are you waiting for me?"
He's preoccupied and walks fast. I can barely keep up.
"Yes, sir. I wanted to remind you…"
"Haven't forgotten," he interrupts, almost sternly.
He waves me to follow him into his office where he tacitly hands me back my contract binder from the previous day.
"Which driver do you want?"
"I don't know…"
"X?"
"No."
"Y?"
"No." Then the devil takes over again.
"The person I prefer is not available, I'm afraid."
"Who, then?" he asks, the question invigorated by sudden interest. "Z?" (On vacation)
"No."
"W?" (Doesn't come daily)
"No."
He stops, puzzled. The options are over.
Before I step out, I say with an enigmatic, little smile.
"I leave you to speculate."
As the door closes, I hear him exclaim.
"Ah! Got it now!"
I indulgently shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. My behavior is so bold, it's getting almost absurd. I must be completely out of my mind.
I'm still dreamy and airheaded as I walk back home that evening. My thoughts revolve around him like an insect inexorably attracted by a light bulb.
It's dusk, the hour of unreality, hovering between day and night and I'm crossing the railway, as I do it every day. It's almost abandoned, so very few trains are passing through this forgotten town nowadays, and the grass has grown tall and untamed. There are many wild flowers, yellow and white, dandelions and red poppies blossoms, full of life, loud crickets and silvery trails left by the abundance of snails. In the morning, my feet in sandals get wet with dew.
Now it's the only time of the year when this railroad has beauty and mystery, when it's not just a desolate scenery of sad, useless iron. In a few weeks from now, all this vegetal exuberance will be dried up, withered, the weeds will have outgrown the flowers, stone and iron will have reclaimed their rightful domain.
So I'm crossing the railway and the rusted tracks are shining red, bloodlike in the oblique, ethereal light of the setting sun and I think of that as the precise moment when I fully realized that I'm in love with him.
Thinking back, I admit to myself that I've always liked him. From my first day on the job. His jokes and rebukes are witty, always with a trace of irony, a tactic perhaps to keep the herds in check. Always so clever. I liked him when he was funny and I liked him when he was mad as hell and slammed us all against the walls. He is magnificent when mad.
I reach home all dizzy with my sudden understanding. I'm restless, governed by sort of pleasant disquietude and I feel this urge to do something impulsive, unusual, out of the ordinary. Without giving much thought, I text him:
"Our gracious thanks to his kingship for the carriage arrangements!"
He is known to always answer his phone, even to the most common of employees but I don't expect a reply in this particular situation. I just had to act in some way, subconsciously perhaps, in order to mark, to celebrate this moment so special to me. So when, merely instants later, the answer comes, I'm overwhelmed with sheer emotion.
"You're welcome; the carriage will be available on other occasions, too. But between you and me, the kingship has other kind of duties, you are too gentle."
I'm assailed by so violent, so terrible a hope that my head reels. I feel all the brakes of discipline getting loose.
"His kingship is too modest. And since he's the busiest in the world, he should receive thanks, because no matter concerning his subjects is too small for his personal attention."
"I thought you were in Procurement, not in Sales… What are you trying to buy with these marvelous words?"
Obviously, I cannot leave it at that.
"Well, I wasn't good enough for Sales, they turned me down, but Procurement suits me just fine, it's closer to...things. As for my intentions…I want to amuse you. I hope I won't turn into the court buffoon though.
Or perhaps there's more to it. I let his kingship to sleep on it. I most surely will."
There's no reply after that. I got more than I'd ever hoped for, anyway and I feel wonderful! I'm like a musical instrument made of purest silver; I feel my body humming, a clear and crystalline sound. Hesitantly, the shape of love rises, trembling, lonesome, strange and shy, wild and quick, its deep glow in my veins and it embraces me fiercely, as if escaped from a wintry exile.
I suddenly change, become of a wild innocence. All is erased, experience, worries, worn patterns under my footsteps. I'm in love! Completely corrupt by love and not corrupt at all. I feel that I'm alive, I feel it in my whole being, in my breath, in my blood!
I have purpose again and for now it does not matter to me what he may think and what he may say about it, I let myself fly and run and throw myself into it without a thought, without a moment of consideration. I'm happy and carefree and I'm neither cautious nor afraid, even if he laughs and makes fun of me, as long as he lets me fool around near him, in his shadow, in his care.
He greats me now with a sort of "ma'am" instead of "good day" and although that's the only – subtle – change I notice, I feel that a bond has developed between us. In a strange way, I feel we silently relate to each other. It's either that or I'm completely nuts.
In the palace of my chimeras, the thread of my fantasies begins to unravel.
It has high ceilings, tall, narrow French doors and crystal chandeliers. It's almost always dimly lit and has a medieval gloom about it. Its park has long cobblestone alleys and intransient, secular arbors. There are wrought iron balconies and soft, diaphanous curtains that are undulating in the wind.
It's beautiful in his melancholic air, in its eerie loneliness that is beyond any lamentation.
The phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans and almost disinterested, I pull it out. I'm not myself today, he hasn't texted back and even worse, he took two days of vacation. That's almost as rare as snow in the desert. The day is vapid and it drags and I miss him like hell.
But then again everything changes in a beat, 'cause it's him. My heart flutters yet my voice is strained when I answer. He immediately senses my distress.
"What happened?"
"Nothing…"
By the way he sounds, he's in his car. In a good mood, too.
"Who's got you upset? What is the matter?"
I bumble again, feebly.
"No one. Nothing… It's just…" I stop.
He pauses too then suddenly understands.
"Oh, I see… Sorry, haven't had time to reply. But I like what you write, it amuses me, it diverts me! I'm gray enough to take it as…"
He laughs with a little uneasiness then stops. Has he sensed the impending gaffe?
Nevertheless, it's too late. The laughter and the presumed ending of his unfinished phrase have made damages already. He has stopped but the stab is there, painfully pulsating with every heartbeat.
He doesn't take me seriously.
"If you liked it, you'll find another sample on your desk."
My voice is so frail I don't think he heard me, because he goes on, unperturbed.
"Anyway, I called to remind you to send me those reports we've talked about."
Of course I'll send the reports. I haven't forgotten. It doesn't matter that I'm unable to put two digits together because I'm consumed with thoughts of him. It doesn't matter that I can't stand to sit at the computer and assemble the data because all my skin itches in wait for Monday and for him to return.
Of course I'll send the reports. I confirm it loudly, using the stupid office jargon and sounding awfully intimidated. He sounds still amused while saying goodbye.
"Talk to you soon. Kisses."
The affectionate goodbye alleviates my sorrow a little but I know that's only temporarily. I start pacing through the office, agitated and grateful for being alone. He laughed at me and as this brusque realization sinks in, my heart sinks too.
I haven't been in love in so many years... Book characters, maybe, wishful projections of my imagination, sure, but not with a man made of flesh and blood. I don't know anymore how to act properly in this situation.
Abruptly, all his words seem distorted; there has been benevolence in his voice, but hasn't it been inextricably mixed with a touch of amiable contempt, too?!
I've never pursued a man. Not this openly, anyway. The hunt is a man's privilege and robbing him of it it's not only tasteless, it's almost vulgar. I'm annoyed and slightly disgusted with myself for not being able to restraint, for exposing myself so unequivocally. I've always admired stoicism in others. The ability to repress your emotions, to be indifferent to pain or pleasure, to submit without complain to any unavoidable necessity. Why can't I be stoic?!
Besides, being so forward could be risky… I don't know the world of men, do they really discuss women?! He doesn't seem like the type that kisses and tells, though, the type that brags about a woman falling for him. He's smarter, has more finesse.
No one is looking at me oddly so far, so he must have been discreet.
I'm pondering whether to take the note off his desk or not. Finally, I decide to leave it. Come what may…
It's nothing much. Just a love letter.
I feel him getting near, his presence behind me, broad as a bear, heat emanating from him as from a sizzling volcano. There he stands, strong, secure, calm, in pure, vast waiting yet waiting for nothing in particular.
I do not turn around. I just stand in complete stillness and gratefully immerse myself in his presence.
Then he speaks and I'm done for.
His voice, his voice is transcending all simplification and summation. Silken, careful, controlled, beckoning without actually beckoning.
"What do you want?"
The whisper is like a physical caress, like a hot touch on the skin.
Then again, deeper:
"What do you want from me?"
What do I want? What do I want?!
I want to bask in his attention like a lizard in the sun. I want to abandon myself to him. I don't want to have to think, to plan, to measure, to evaluate. I want to be allowed to exist near him and nothing more. I want to be spoiled rotten. I want to be allowed to rest.
I want to haunt his thoughts like he haunts mine.
I want him to admit I'm special to him, at least in some insignificant, infinitesimal measure.
And yet, I want nothing. Nothing at all.
Monday finally comes and as we're pulling into the parking lot, I notice that his car is missing. That's odd and I instantly feel the bad omen. Where is he? He never skips a day, never takes more than a week of vacation. No matter how early we arrive in the morning, he is already there. Always the last to leave. Simply indefatigable.
Just how bad an omen, I was yet to find.
Some unpleasant chores that I have been postponing long enough are getting due at home and I take the rest of the week off to solve them. Or at least that's what I have been saying to myself. The truth is, I'm a little ashamed of my newfound, silly audacity and I feel I should give it some space. Let it breathe.
Let him miss me.
It's Friday afternoon, my self-imposed exile almost over. I haven't seen him in four days but it feels like much, much longer. My phone rings. It's only this colleague who's eagerly willing to share the hot news.
"Have you heard? The boss has resigned…"
"Which boss?" I ask wearily. We have so many.
"Mr. Cullen."
I freeze with perplexity. It's like a blow in the solar plexus. In the first moment I feel only the shock. Then a wave of hot panic. With great effort I manage to voice the obvious question.
"Why? What happened?"
"No one knows."
Something inside me fractures. I simply cannot believe it.
It is impossible, I must be dreaming, it is absolutely impossible!
Briefly, I wonder if it's because of me. But no, I'm not that important while his job is. He could easily solve this little romantic complication if he had to, without resorting to such drastic measures. Just a passing thought. No, it's not me.
I can't wrap my mind around it, I can't conceive the implications. Little by little, as the thoughts gather, I feel the fissure inside perpetuating, getting wider, deeper.
Bang-bang, my baby shot me down…
On the following Monday, quite predictably, the rumor market is sky-high. Some even say he may go to jail. Ha. Speculations, lies, old animosities swiftly rise to the surface, suffocating the grapevine. It's almost unbearable. I feel very empty, dull, still bewildered.
In addition, I find out that this is going to be his last day.
"Why" is the omnipresent question. No one knows; he hasn't confided in anyone.
Later, the gossip will be getting more sense. That his relationship with the higher management went sour. That he wasn't docile enough, malleable enough. That something nasty was being prepared for him and he found out.
One of the facts of corporate life is that no one is indispensable.
So he chose to leave on his own terms, with no compensations but with his dignity intact. In principle, I understand his decision but at the same time everything inside me is revolting against it.
He chose to leave them high and dry. Leave all of us high and dry.
Including me.
I'm waiting for my turn to say goodbye. I sit where I've always sat, right in front of his door, on the fax machine cupboard and when he opens the door and sees me, has this small recoil motion.
"Whose side are you on?" he softly admonishes the secretary then makes room for me to enter.
I don't get what's behind that reproach to the secretary. I'm too numb and emotive and don't know what to say. I wish I were able to utter the million things I have been thinking about, but I can't. I try out a joke instead, although inside my head is only this useless mantra on repeat: "Please, don't go, please don't go…"
I wish he told me it's all a ruse, a scam, a subterfuge to obtain something, more money, more power, more something from the gods that own us. But he doesn't say it. He looks pallid, tired and burdened and I can tell it's all very difficult for him: ending all connections, handing over his car, his laptop, liquidating the expense account… enduring the long procession of people wanting to express their regret, wanting to say goodbye.
"I'd lie if I told you it's not hard. It is."
"Maybe you'll be back. I have a feeling you'll be back…"
He doesn't say anything and that silence equivalents to a denial, or at least to a doubt. He only smiles, and there are tenderness, irony and a shadow of sadness in it.
I whisper:
"But it's not fair… you'll be leaving with this huge emotional weight… all the regrets you leave behind, the emotions of all those caring about you..."
He shrugs. I'd like to tell him that I don't care about other people. Above and beyond all, it's not fair to me!
What arms did he twist that they let him leave so quickly? He's management; even in case of a resignation, he is bound to stay for thirty days. A lot could happen in thirty days. A change of mind. A turn of events. A proper goodbye, at least.
He says some very nice things next. One of which describes me as a 'marvel'. Later, to my dismay, I can't remember any of them…
We are quickly running out of time; the sand in my ephemeral hourglass has trickled all the way down.
I don't want to leave his office, I don't want him to leave at all, I want to stay right there and talk to him endlessly while he listens with amused tolerance and perhaps only half-careful to my words… I want to get to know him better, I want him to know me, I want to unravel to him slowly, I want to amaze him, to render him speechless, to blow up his mind…
But people are waiting outside the door, claiming a piece of him, demanding to see him one more time. It's almost after-hours and he's just so very tired and too greatly affected.
He nears me, saying all the appropriate things, like 'success' and the kind. All so suitable and right and so very politically correct. The hug that he gives me though is heartbreaking and perhaps more significant than our entire awkward, crippled conversation.
I exit, my face rigid, masklike under other's scrutiny. I'm so fucking tough. I haven't cried.
Only this bitter old lady acridly remarks that I've "spent quite a while in there…"
I'm not the only victim of his ineffable charm. Days after his departure, there are still women in tears. "Wasted", as some guy ironically labelled them, completely clueless to my being one of them. I should have known, or maybe I have known. Nevertheless, I'm viscerally jealous.
I don't pity them, these tearful women. I have no sympathy for them. I'm better; I'm superior since I can keep up appearances. Until in the privacy of my home, at least, where, on the evening of his last day, after our disconsolate farewell, I get really drunk. I get drunk and cry my heart out, out of helplessness and despair.
I can't call him. I have no reason and no right to call him. What could I possibly tell him?! That I'm disoriented, as if I were in a deserted train station where I got off by chance? That I'm disconcerted, bereaved, lost without him? That I'm weak and lifeless?
All of it sounds stupid and trite but it is also true.
I can only text him. It's more impersonal or should I admit to myself that it's easier for me to depersonalize, to become someone else, someone who is more comfortable hidden behind written words?
I text him but his answers are monosyllabic, few and far in between. Until they disappear altogether. So I text him some more and I wait and wait for his replies and his silence makes me restless and the waiting is corrosive to my nerves and I'm beginning to believe that all things in life are hopeless and in vain.
I try everything in my texts: I try funny, I try sad, I try inquisitive, I try reflective. I try out stupid motivational discourses, I try supportive remarks, I try pleading, I try begging.
Nothing. He's an inexpugnable fortress.
I'm like this maddened sparrow that keeps hitting itself against a window. Do you know that hollow, horrible sound, of a bird hitting a window?!
Why doesn't he reply? Why does he refuse dialogue with me? How come he doesn't see that the simplest of his replies would throw me over the moon? Why doesn't he get this atavistic need that I have to hear from him? Does he enjoy tormenting me? Does he have a good laugh on my expense with someone else? Why doesn't he tell me to stop and leave him be? I told him I would if he said so. Is he too much of a gentleman to do it? Expects me to realize it by myself eventually? Does he try to spare me the cruelty and awkwardness of an open refusal? Am I that naïve? Am I delusional, confusing kindness for interest? Am I suffering out of stupid egoism alone?
These questions squirm inside my head like coiled snakes, poisoning me, stealing away my peace of mind. A little more, and I'll turn into ashes.
Why does he resist, instead of plunging himself into it? I could be mistaken about him, I could have misinterpreted his signs but I am rarely wrong in these sensitive, intuitive matters. It is as if something within him is suddenly closed up and he doesn't want to let anything or anyone in.
A little defiance has finally elicited a response one day. Formal, cold, polite, it could have been construed by a more lucid reader as an elegant "fuck-off". He's even signed it, unnecessarily, in his customary style, with his initials only, which has always made me think of Hannibal Lecter.
Why would someone want to sign a text?!
His voice is almost toneless.
"I'm too old for you, you know…"
"No, you're not. You're 49."
"I'm still too old."
"I think you may be misinformed about my age."
I can hear a dry, ill-boding smile in his voice.
"I'm acutely aware of it, actually."
Suddenly, it's getting very, very cold inside my palace…
Days have passed. Then weeks. One day, this guy walks into the office. Installs himself comfortably in a chair. Starts talking with superiority and emphasis, like one of the few fortunate to be still in contact with the great man. How he saw Mr. Cullen for a tea. I don't know if that's an euphemism for a coffee or for a drink, but he keeps repeating it, like it's this good joke. How Mr. Cullen looked good and serene, and he was almost happy. Hey, y'all, did you know that Mr. Cullen attended a wedding last week-end?!
The pain wakes up inside me with renewed ferocity every time I hear about him, like an evil Jack-in-the-box. Can't stand to listen to any more of this but I can't make myself to leave the room either. I need to hear it, like an addict needs his dose. I'm keeping my eyes stubbornly focused on the computer screen but I don't miss a word this short, annoying guy is saying. Suddenly, intensely, I feel a wave of undeserved resentment toward him. With his false aura of self-importance, he seems to me almost as ridiculous as a dwarf performing at a king's palace.
I finally exit and go hide in an empty office to clear my head. I'm bleeding monstrously again, my heart squeezed by an invisible, unmerciful fist. Oh, dark, tentacular disappointment!
He's fine and more than fine while I'm going through The Caudine Forks.
He's rumored to have got a new job in a far corner of the country but he might as well be on a different continent. I'm at this point in life when all I feel is exhaustion and every "must" and "have to" around only oppress me more. What lies ahead seems like a dusty, weary road, devoid of joy. I'm tired and my tiredness goes in circles, deepened a little more with each cycle, stretched toward infinity, unending, like my daily commute. He gave me life and solace; he was my shore full of respite.
He is as lost to me now as if he never existed.
It's May and then it's June and the fields seen from the car's window turn greener and greener, opulently fed by the constant, incessant rain. This summer is getting something putrid, fetid in it from all the water, like the repellent fascination of a swamp. I see houses gliding past, villages, churches, men on bicycles, children playing in the dust, chickens and goats… It's like an end and a beginning, future and past mingling. Life. And then again the even contours of the plain, the sky arching above, eternal, immovable.
I have begun to stifle my forlorn endeavor, my silly little text messages are getting more tamed, more "rarefied". Still, every day is a fight with myself, my soul and mind constantly under the siege of an unwanted feeling of irrevocability. I have been getting used to it, I guess, in a way… After all the contradictory hopes and final defeats, maybe it was time to resign... To sober up. To get stoic, as I wished.
But every now and then, out of the blue, I have this moments when, with brief but intense clarity, I remember his features, his ways, his voice. In my mind's eye, I can see him walking on these dark hallways as he used to, I sense his presence like the one of a welcomed ghost, as if he were nearby, pleased, smiling. I evoke my short-lived, volatile happiness and think how we're just sparks in an arbitrary wind. The wild sailings of our lives, indeed.
And in those moments instantaneously, I get weak with missing him. I get weak with this "exasperation", with this debilitating frustration that even gone, he is still holding me in his power.
The one that got away…
I know the sorrow will fade away eventually, leaving me without any lament and without expectation, without desire or pain. Only with the deep peace of the inevitable, only with the fatalistic calm of the helplessness. There's nothing that remains serious for long, isn't it?! Nothing that escapes to the engulfing folds of oblivion, to the grinding habit of time. Le temps qui nous guérit de tout…
And as we drive in our sad, daily commute, and the car heads into the sunset, I feel this strange, indefinable desire to murmur his name, like Nick Nolte Barbra Streisand's in that movie.
"Mister Cullen… Mister Cullen…"