March, 30th

John:

Bessy Higgins came to me with pretty much what was my original idea, written down and with most details sorted out and, take this, a few alternative scenarios if key things don't work out. It even had detailed budgets estimated for each scenario, and what definitely put a seal on her involvement was that they all included the employees paying for a part of it.

I am pleased to find that she has a good head for lower level management. Even if her top qualification is a driving permit for bikes, I think we should give her a chance to prove herself in office work. I think she'll like it and who knows, maybe even thrive. I know it better than any book could say that the best way to earn employees' loyalty is by being loyal oneself.

I want to hear about her son and she needs a little prodding - but not much, after all she's a mother. Knowing about that kid makes me feel closer to Margaret, a window to her thoughts I can't possibly have. Philip, that's his name, is shy and has struggled at school but since Margaret came into the picture he's improved greatly. Apparently Margaret realized where was the root of a few of Philip's issues and has helped him overcome some of his fears.

At this point Bessy Higgins, whose face has the femininity of a boxer's, wells up and she fishes a folded piece of paper from her back pocket and hands it over. I unfold it to find a charming child's drawing depicting a domestic scene, where among other people I think I recognize Margaret. The drawing hasn't much formal technique; the artist is eight years old and it shows, but it's really beautiful and it seems this child found a way to express himself and, no doubts about it, has talent.

It was Margaret who encouraged him to stop doodling and start drawing, the one who turned that trickle to a stream.

I'm not surprised.

It's late in the night and I'm brushing my teeth, almost ready to go to sleep. Today I had class with Mr. Hale but didn't see Margaret. I was almost hoping to meet her, that she would hear of the employees' daycare project from me, but no such luck.

I haven't seen her much lately, only twice actually. Once she simply opened the door for me and left the house immediately, and once when Mr. West was leaving. She was sitting at the dining table with a mug in her hands, looking at the window absentmindedly and Mr. West stood by her side and told her in low voice "Hold on, my dear. Hold on". She didn't stir except for a weak smile.

I look up to my face in the mirror. I need a haircut.

I didn't have to walk out on her that night, to make her think she was going home alone. I didn't have to be so severe, no, cruel. I could have excused me, I could have let her talk. I told myself I didn't feel any remorse but that's all crap and I'm an ass. She was barely holding herself together, no, she was crying on her way home and it was because of me, and I know this is worthless to say or even think, but I'm sorry, Margaret, I'm so sorry.

"Margaret, I wish I could hate you half of what I already love you. I just have too much and I don't know what to do with it, it leaks out from me and in your distance takes strange shapes". I rub and scratch the stubble on my jaw to prevent any more words spilling out, as if preventing them from taking a corporeal sound form would make them any less real.

It is ironic, I think, that where others are involved Margaret manages to bring out the best in me yet I only seem to have harshness and insolence for her. Why is that? Am I so shriveled up after so many years of not loving anyone that I can't respond properly?

I've slided into bed now, and I sit to read before sleep deigns to stop by. But before I open my book I pull open the little drawer on my bedside table and take out one of the two only objects occupying that space. It's a drinking straw, with a lingering smell of orange juice and a shadow of dark pink lipstick near the short end. The other object, also a straw (one from a restaurant still in its paper wrap), is there just to keep it company.

I carefully put it back, push the drawer shut and get on my reading.

Loneliness is a tough affair.

Note: For the purposes of story pacing I am making Mr. Hale and Margaret's grieving processes quite fast, so now I'll leave them mourn in peace. Echoing another story makes fanfic a bit strange, I think.