The Contradiction of Solitude(3)

Another world.

I made a point to bring little with me. Very few ties. Only the ones I could bear.

I carried only small things from one life to the next. Some clothes, my green notebook, and the old book with the blue cover that had become my constant companion. Words that struck a chord and dragged me on.

And the photographs.

A row of framed pictures lined the windowsill. Beautiful faces immobilized forever.

I opened my familiar copy of Swann’s Way, flipped to the first page, and ran my finger over the now barely noticeable script that had once been so vibrant.

For my little, Lay ~

There’s contradiction in solitude.

Daddy

A cryptic message from a man I could remember in excruciating detail. Except for his face.

He left the book tucked away for me to find at the most opportune moment. When he was gone and I was supposed to never, ever want him back.

In his aftermath, I poured over the pages of the battered Proust, thinking there was a sign in there somewhere. A secret message amongst the self-indulgent ramblings.

Eventually I stopped looking.

Eventually I stopped caring.

Mine wasn’t a story of a poor girl abandoned by her father for reasons so horrific they shouldn’t be talked about. It was so much more than that.

I had no real memory of him going away. A therapist would say it was a repressed memory. I was protecting myself from something that would only cause me pain. Yet, it burned into my subconscious in the manner that all life-altering moments do.

The book didn’t matter. My father’s reasons for leaving it for me—inconsequential. It wasn’t what lay sleeping in the pages that had come to define my life.

It was something so much more. So much deeper. So much darker.

I shut the book and put it down on the small end table. Next to a framed picture of people from another time. Not one of those I kept by the window. This one sat separate. Not to be confused with the others.

Smiling faces of a happy family. Strangers behind glass.

I didn’t know those people. This photograph was a testimonial to a bitterly happy time. Snuffed out. Should be forgotten.

But never forgotten.

I was adrift. Lost in the wind unable to find purchase.

I thought of Dancing Green Eyes who had a name.

Elian.

Thoughts were funny things.

Sometimes they blossomed out of nothing and took over your entire world.

Elian.

I knew he was my purpose. My sense in a chaotic universe. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t abrupt. These feelings, these thoughts had gone on and on and on…

Before I even knew his name.

Elian.

See you around? A question. But was it really?

Did I dare to accept his innocent invitation?

He couldn’t possibly know what his simple words meant to a girl like me.

I picked up the photograph of the smiling family.

I stared down at their uniformed contentment that I both envied and despised.

I ran my finger down the smooth glass, almost wishing, just for a second that I could touch them.

What a foolish thought. Illogical. Ridiculous.

I lifted my arm, as if in slow motion. I threw the picture frame across the room, watching with a sick satisfaction as the glass shattered and rained down on the carpet.

The shards piercing the smiles that lingered like ghosts.



I liked the vintage bookstore where I worked. The smell of ancient pages mixed with dust was almost an aphrodisiac. I would walk into the front door, my heart would start to race and my palms would begin to sweat. Euphoria.

“Layna! There you are! I have to get my son to a doctor’s appointment. Are you okay to close up tonight?” Diana Felts, the owner of The Lion and the Rose Bookshop, was a frazzled woman who always spoke as if she were running a marathon. Quickly and out of breath.

I nodded my head. Diana gave me a strange look when I didn’t open my mouth to answer her. She didn’t like me. I knew that. I was comfortable with her disdain.

I slipped behind the counter and started straightening the pile of bookmarks into neat, concise piles. Diana lingered for a minute, as though waiting to see if I would ask her questions about her day. She wanted me to tell her about mine. To wear the costume of friend.

I didn’t.

Most would call me ill-mannered. Maybe they were right. I had lost the basic skills necessary to engage in social niceties. It was difficult to find ways to connect with people you didn’t care about.

I used words sparingly and only when needed. I didn’t waste them on people who had no place in my every day. Or even my right now. I despised people that felt the need to fill calm silence with empty words.

Words mattered. When spoken they couldn’t be taken back. So it was important to make them count. Each and every time.

“Okay then, thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Diana said finally and left me to the store.

I could hear the floorboards above my head creaking and groaning as people walked amongst the stacks. Customers lounged on the overstuffed chairs in the corners, reading a book and drinking their overpriced lattes. They looked deep in thought, a finger to their chin as though a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time made them that much smarter than the rest of us.

I didn’t judge. I was a keen observer of people. I knew that the guy in the corner with his hipster beard and lip ring yelled at his girlfriend when she didn’t text him back right away. He was a condescending bully that hid it under pseudo-intelligence.