[They will meet eventually, I promise. Thanks to all who gave suggestions : (Offline now so I don't know who, or I'd do the personal thank list here.) I was going crazy over the whole 'how, when, and under what circumstances?' thing. Think I've got it. Just toying with some random angst… to put it in, or not to put it in? That is the question…]
[Oh, hopefully, the chapters will get longer once they meet. I don't know why they're shrinking… Pretend they represent the shrinking vacillations before the state of rest, and thus collision. Or something.]
[BTW, The Princess and the Warrior will be showing up from time to time. It is wonderful, brilliant, wicked… The best movie I've seen in possibly forever, and that includes A.I. and Momento. Rent it. You won't be sorry. :]
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Chapter 4
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…Hit send.
He knew it was selfishness on his part. Wanted Grace to know he had… had…
Had read her message, understood, and reciprocated? Wanted to reaffirm that he was alive, out there, someone she shouldn't give up on? Who shouldn't give up on himself?
It was wrong. But he wouldn't regret it.
And he didn't.
Days passed, the sun rising and setting, but really doing neither, as it was the Earth, spinning this way and that way in space. But of course, it is only a matter of perspective. That line looks longer, that shade of grey darker. Stairs going up, down, impossible walkways in impossible worlds.
Perspective. What an artist must have, must create. Create the created, and hold the held.
Days turned to nights turned to summer turned to winter. Linear life was giving way, folding back and forth in a tesseract of reality. Write a story, send it off, write another, go back to the first, skip, send, crumple, write and revise.
His life.
He couldn't be happier.
Friends were the only things keeping him linear. Rather, friends and postmarks, rejections and checks. Ink cartridges and paper and coffee beans. Even these ran together, until he might have been living the same section of time over and over and over…
His life had pulled back from the human restrictions into the fourth dimension. His mind hadn't, not yet. He knew what he'd eaten the day before, what movies came out and which plays would be worthwhile to buy tickets for.
He continued to eat, watch movies, go to plays, fall asleep, wake up.
Hmm? Yes?
Chris lifted an eyebrow, poked his arm. "Have you been taking lessons in German, behind my back?"
"No." Confusion. "Why?"
"You haven't looked at the screen once in the past ten minutes."
Pointed look at the TV.
Actors frozen above their words.
"Oh. Right. I'm sorry, I guess I'm just tired…"
Smiles, hugs, and she left, taking the copy of The Princess and the Warrior with her. Let him sleep. He needed it, she knew. She'd known him back when, and he'd always needed sleep then as well.
But there was a difference, this time… She shrugged, reasoning that they'd aged, life had happened, memory was faulty, people change.
The door was closed, but he didn't sleep. Nor did he think. Nor write. He sat, watching his screensaver, tracing the complex knot of pipes as they grew…
The next morning he awoke, for once without flushed face and frenzied mind. Slept late, until sated. Looked at his watch. December already. When had that happened?
No, maybe… yes. Vague recollection of chill air pouring in though his windows, less time with the sun, more time with the moon. Wasn't only his imagination then.
His apartment was unbearable. It had been too long since he'd left. His body had gone, of course. But not his mind. That he kept, for the greater part, back behind those walls, in front of the computer screen, paper, typewriter.
First he was hungry. Not much there, not surprising. Two birds with one stone then.
Get in car, turn on, drive. His eyes spent more time on the scenery than the road and his dash. Not particularly meritous of a driver's ed. award, but he was waking up. Coming up. The trees were bare, bereft of rainbow foliage, but the stark delineations between trunk and ground, branch and sky, embodied the sensuousness of nature as well as color could. Existentialism versus Romanticism, Minimalist versus Victorian.
Park. Go into the store. Go back out. Grab buggy, try again. One cannot help but be amazed with mankind, when looking at monumental proof of his ability to create.
True, a supermarket is not that huge. But each brand, each piece of fruit, each box of cereal represents many different companies. The building itself was only one of many, each holding as much as this. Locate the store on a map, and draw a line about the population that would use it. Compare to the whole of the United States. Impressive.
Packaged meat. Scary thought. Who grew the cows? Who slaughtered them? How were they cut up and sorted and shipped
and packaged, so that he could hold this bit of red meat, hygienically enclosed
in plastic? Who made the plastic?
Silly questions, one and all. But there was a point, an end to which they drove. One that is hard to express in words, captured best by shadows and whispers.
The eternal question, 'who made this?', lurked behind his ears as he criss-crossed the store, stocking up on the essentials. Milk, eggs, cereal, bananas. Cheese. Meat. Bread.
The bread was giving him problems. Logically, there should be, and would be, a date printed somewhere on the bag. Logically. It was worse than Where's Waldo. Honestly.
He was flipping the sliced whole grain in his hands, rotating and staring and glaring and peering, when he happened to look up.
He dropped the bread.
A moment later it was in the cart, somewhat smushed, but confident in the knowledge that it was to be purchased, without the future consumer ever having found the 'best by' date.
In that glance, he had seen Grace, walking past the aisle.
Her head was turned, conversing with a kid in his early 20s. He actually looked familiar… Her face was averted, but he knew it was her from her shape, her posture, her walk. As if in confirmation of his recognition, her laugh was tossed back to him, along with a snippet of her conversation. "…Not even! I'm talking quality, not…"
The kid with her, he did know him. Her half brother – the musician guy. He looked up. Dimitri could have sworn the kid's eyes narrowed, just for a second, and then they were gone.
He continued shopping. No big deal, really. He shouldn't have been surprised. Former students were always crossing his path. Especially during holidays, when they were home from school.
Still, he found himself checking around corners, and listening for her voice. If he saw her again, his body was prepared to duck. His mind was up there shouting that this was stupid, what the hell was going on, it doesn't bloody well matter if she sees you.
But, as in any serious war situation, the chattering commanders, sitting safe in their offices, well behind enemy lines, had very little effect on the instantaneous actions of the common soldier, who was wishing very hard, and very much, not to die.
And yet… There is something tantalizing about the thought of a land mine, or grenade, or volley of shot, so close that one could reach out and-
He got back out to his car without another trace of her. All for the best. He didn't want to force her into a sense of obligation, of guilt, regarding a few months in her junior year.
Back in his apartment, he sat down in front of his computer, to realize he was ready for a break.
Chris was there that night, interested to see first hand the change she had heard over the phone. His voice was clearer, and his eyes more focused, as if the transparent veil of paper and computer screen, which had been riding as potential in front of him for months, had finally lifted.
She had brought back The Princess and the Warrior. Rather, she had brought him a copy. Three days after her first viewing she bought herself a copy, and a week later she caved and started giving the DVD itself away to close friends, recommendations to all acquaintances. There was a tendency, on her part, to do this with a couple movies a year. Of course, no one complained, and her taste was better than most.
He watched, transfixed. Chris watched, but also watched him, since she had the movie all but memorized, and there is nothing better than watching the positive reactions of friends to ones favorite art/entertainment.
After it was over, and the house had become a speck on the shore, they talked, and finished the popcorn and cleaned up. And she was frowning. His veil was back.
That weekend she called, and found out what it was. He had discovered the screenplay format.
"What is it?"
"A play? There is so much one can do with the actors, interacting in what is essentially one continuous cut…"
"It's going… well?"
"First draft by next Sunday."
They set a time for her to go over and have the first reading. Then hung up. Her, back to her new Terry Pratchett, him, back to his computer and coffee.