Her phone rang. It was his ringtone so she knew it was him. "Hi," she said. "Hi, what you are up to?" "Behaving," she replied, jokingly. "Do you have plans this weekend?" "Not really, why?" There was a pause. "I'm plannnig a short trip, an overnight one, to check out a show. Do you want to go?" "Sure. How are you getting there?"
Before she knew it, she was buying her train tickets online and packing an overnight bag to meet him at the train station for an 8 am departure. "You made it," he said, looking relieved as she walked up to him with a grin on her face. "Yeah, of course," she said, and they hugged. "You have your ticket?" he asked. She nodded, "Yup, you?" They walked to the departure gate and waited to get on the train.
As they found a comfortable spot for themselves, he immediately pulled out his electronic toy and started typing away, no sooner their bags had been put away and they got into their seats. He was making last minute checks on the office, and once the train started, he would be done with catching up on work and focusing on the weekend. He pulled out a museum flyer and put it in her hand. "Thought we might go to this," he said, as he continued to text and type, not breaking his stride.
She looked it over. Indeed it looked interesting, she thought. "Can we go to this?" she asked. "Sure," he said. She checked her phone for any messages, texted family that she was on the train and she was fine, then settled into her seat. She was looking foward to this trip, and was feeling good.
The conductor announced the closing of the train doors over the PA system. People hurried to their chosen seats. Then the doors closed and the train started moving out of the train station. Once the train started moving out of the tunnel and into the daylight, she could relax and settle into her chair. He was still typing away, still...checking.
She wondered what his life was like. Again. Was it really so busy? It didn't seem that busy. She continued to try to brush her wonderings aside. She would ask him what was going on, but it seemed he had a trained answer for her, short and to the point, as if they were polite strangers talking about the weather out of sheer boredom to acknowledge each other.
He finally put down the electronic device to go find a bathroom. "I'm a little thirsty -- do you want anything?" he asked. "A bottle of water would be great," she replied. "OK, anything else?" "Oh, no thanks." she smiled at him. He took off and she figured he'd be gone a good ten minutes so she occupied herself with reading the book the brought.
After a couple of pages, her mind turned to thoughts of meeting men. Here she was, riding a train with the one man who she felt was her equal and who was his best friend. Yet she saw how he had been in what were intimate relationships with other people and it didn't pan out well. "He's not dependable," echoed Lily's voice in her head. She shook her head as if to shake the thought from her mind. She never considered him because there was nothing to consider. He was her friend and she was comfortable with the way things were between them.
She thought Lily was crazy to discuss him because she was clear where she stood with him. Romance just confused and clouded things that were refreshingly clear. "If we weren't friends, would we be lovers?" she thought. Probably not. He was very particular and she would sometimes wince when he would talk about why it didn't work out with the last lover he had. Too clingy, not enough of their own life, too independent, too controlling, too weak, too young, too old. The list just went on and on.
She pulled out a notepad and pen and started work on her her latest novel project. She was determined to write more than a 1,000 words a day, just any kind of nonsense that came into mind. She wrote a description on how he looked, "tight casual jeans, nice colored shirt, crisp and clean in a complimentary purple color that matched his skin tone," and she found she couldn't continue the train of thought. She sighed, and looked out the window, and wondered if she was a fool to try to discipline herself in this practice of writing, what was the point? It was a discipline and she was admittedly lousy at it. She had tried writing in fits and starts. She always said that she could sit down and bang out ten pages in one sitting, then not be able to write for weeks or months after, barely squeezing out a paragraph like one squeezes the last bit of precious toothpaste out of a tube.
"This is stupid," she wrote, "I keep writing things, long tangents of thought, and they never lead anywhere, they never develop into something bigger, something more, something cohesive, something--" she looked up for a second to see herself being presented with a nice cold bottle of water. Oh yeah, she thought, "finished." She wrote, snapped the notebook shut, and took the bottle of water, "Thank you!" she said.
He sat next to her. He was actually going to eat something and not go immediately to his electronic toy! This thought brought a smile to her and he unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. "What are you writing?" he asked casually. He knew of her writing struggles. "I figured I would just write whatever came to mind..." she said, her voice trailed off as she suddenly felt self-conscious.
"How far have you gotten?" he asked. "Not far," she admitted. "It's the way it is," he responded. He waited a beat, then asked, "Is it OK if I get on my email?" "Sure, I've got to keep at this writing thing anyway," she answered. She opened her book, and looked at a blank page. She loved the smell of paper, the promise of an empty page, untouched, virgin. Then she would create something on the page, a scribble, a thought, a little drawing. And then she was the creator, the page could not go back to being empty, clean, virgin. The page would be as it is, permanently changed, forever. And it was done by her. She had left a mark, she thought. She again stared at the page and let her mind clear.
Okay, what to write what to write what to write? Maybe she should read a book and that would divert her mind to unclench itself and the words and thoughts she was looking for would pour out. Or not, a little voice went in her head. She suddenly had to go to the bathroom. She put her notebook away and left the book on her seat. "Which way's the bathroom?" she asked him. He nodded behind them, "In the next car," he said. "Ok," she got up and went to the restroom. She could never really think on a full bladder, she reasoned as she pulled down her pants and sat on the toilet seat to relieve herself. After a minute or so, she was done, she used some toilet paper and then pulled her pants up. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Taking a napkin, she dried her hands and used the same napkin to unlock the bathroom door to let herself out, mindful of how many people may touch the doorknob and wondered how many of them truly washed their hands after using the bathroom.
She did a quick check of herself in the mirror to make sure her pants were OK and no toilet paper was stuck to her shoes before heading out and making her way back to her seat. She pulled open her book and began to read.
Before she knew it, she was buying her train tickets online and packing an overnight bag to meet him at the train station for an 8 am departure. "You made it," he said, looking relieved as she walked up to him with a grin on her face. "Yeah, of course," she said, and they hugged. "You have your ticket?" he asked. She nodded, "Yup, you?" They walked to the departure gate and waited to get on the train.
As they found a comfortable spot for themselves, he immediately pulled out his electronic toy and started typing away, no sooner their bags had been put away and they got into their seats. He was making last minute checks on the office, and once the train started, he would be done with catching up on work and focusing on the weekend. He pulled out a museum flyer and put it in her hand. "Thought we might go to this," he said, as he continued to text and type, not breaking his stride.
She looked it over. Indeed it looked interesting, she thought. "Can we go to this?" she asked. "Sure," he said. She checked her phone for any messages, texted family that she was on the train and she was fine, then settled into her seat. She was looking foward to this trip, and was feeling good.
The conductor announced the closing of the train doors over the PA system. People hurried to their chosen seats. Then the doors closed and the train started moving out of the train station. Once the train started moving out of the tunnel and into the daylight, she could relax and settle into her chair. He was still typing away, still...checking.
She wondered what his life was like. Again. Was it really so busy? It didn't seem that busy. She continued to try to brush her wonderings aside. She would ask him what was going on, but it seemed he had a trained answer for her, short and to the point, as if they were polite strangers talking about the weather out of sheer boredom to acknowledge each other.
He finally put down the electronic device to go find a bathroom. "I'm a little thirsty -- do you want anything?" he asked. "A bottle of water would be great," she replied. "OK, anything else?" "Oh, no thanks." she smiled at him. He took off and she figured he'd be gone a good ten minutes so she occupied herself with reading the book the brought.
After a couple of pages, her mind turned to thoughts of meeting men. Here she was, riding a train with the one man who she felt was her equal and who was his best friend. Yet she saw how he had been in what were intimate relationships with other people and it didn't pan out well. "He's not dependable," echoed Lily's voice in her head. She shook her head as if to shake the thought from her mind. She never considered him because there was nothing to consider. He was her friend and she was comfortable with the way things were between them.
She thought Lily was crazy to discuss him because she was clear where she stood with him. Romance just confused and clouded things that were refreshingly clear. "If we weren't friends, would we be lovers?" she thought. Probably not. He was very particular and she would sometimes wince when he would talk about why it didn't work out with the last lover he had. Too clingy, not enough of their own life, too independent, too controlling, too weak, too young, too old. The list just went on and on.
She pulled out a notepad and pen and started work on her her latest novel project. She was determined to write more than a 1,000 words a day, just any kind of nonsense that came into mind. She wrote a description on how he looked, "tight casual jeans, nice colored shirt, crisp and clean in a complimentary purple color that matched his skin tone," and she found she couldn't continue the train of thought. She sighed, and looked out the window, and wondered if she was a fool to try to discipline herself in this practice of writing, what was the point? It was a discipline and she was admittedly lousy at it. She had tried writing in fits and starts. She always said that she could sit down and bang out ten pages in one sitting, then not be able to write for weeks or months after, barely squeezing out a paragraph like one squeezes the last bit of precious toothpaste out of a tube.
"This is stupid," she wrote, "I keep writing things, long tangents of thought, and they never lead anywhere, they never develop into something bigger, something more, something cohesive, something--" she looked up for a second to see herself being presented with a nice cold bottle of water. Oh yeah, she thought, "finished." She wrote, snapped the notebook shut, and took the bottle of water, "Thank you!" she said.
He sat next to her. He was actually going to eat something and not go immediately to his electronic toy! This thought brought a smile to her and he unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. "What are you writing?" he asked casually. He knew of her writing struggles. "I figured I would just write whatever came to mind..." she said, her voice trailed off as she suddenly felt self-conscious.
"How far have you gotten?" he asked. "Not far," she admitted. "It's the way it is," he responded. He waited a beat, then asked, "Is it OK if I get on my email?" "Sure, I've got to keep at this writing thing anyway," she answered. She opened her book, and looked at a blank page. She loved the smell of paper, the promise of an empty page, untouched, virgin. Then she would create something on the page, a scribble, a thought, a little drawing. And then she was the creator, the page could not go back to being empty, clean, virgin. The page would be as it is, permanently changed, forever. And it was done by her. She had left a mark, she thought. She again stared at the page and let her mind clear.
Okay, what to write what to write what to write? Maybe she should read a book and that would divert her mind to unclench itself and the words and thoughts she was looking for would pour out. Or not, a little voice went in her head. She suddenly had to go to the bathroom. She put her notebook away and left the book on her seat. "Which way's the bathroom?" she asked him. He nodded behind them, "In the next car," he said. "Ok," she got up and went to the restroom. She could never really think on a full bladder, she reasoned as she pulled down her pants and sat on the toilet seat to relieve herself. After a minute or so, she was done, she used some toilet paper and then pulled her pants up. She flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Taking a napkin, she dried her hands and used the same napkin to unlock the bathroom door to let herself out, mindful of how many people may touch the doorknob and wondered how many of them truly washed their hands after using the bathroom.
She did a quick check of herself in the mirror to make sure her pants were OK and no toilet paper was stuck to her shoes before heading out and making her way back to her seat. She pulled open her book and began to read.
No comments:
Post a Comment