I’ve made an important decision. I’ve quit my job. Ever since then my days seem to be filled with more program than content. Like ordering state of the art earphones, only to receive them in a huge box filled with small, burger shaped styrofoams. My days are made up of styrofoams that buffer and protect my decision.
I have been keeping a journal; it is called ‘5 lines a day for 5 years’. When I had a job, I struggled to find a focal point to my day. There wasn’t all that much to write down. Now my diary resembles a ‘to do’ list. To make it more fun, I challenge myself to make sentences. It is difficult to make sentences. Have you ever tried to make sentences out of a menu? It’ll make your mouth water, but never give you the satisfaction of food.
On the the top of my ‘to do’ list today is lunch with L. We meet at the tram stop and walk the short distance to the entrance of the restaurant. Almost at the door, a group of four men walking the same way, catch my eye. Even from afar I am drawn to one of them in particular. The features come into focus as he approaches; the colour concept is just right, brown hair, big brown eyes, a particular face. In short, attractive.
We are almost level now, I see him clearly. My heart skips a beat, my brain struggles to follow. He hasn’t seen me, before I can stop myself, my mouth opens and I cry out with unrestrained glee ‘George!’.
He stops and stares, his face goes blank and I can’t read him. The whole group has gathered and my friend L greets and chats with another member of the assembly. The other two just stare at George and I, observing my fading smile and George’ paralysis.
By then my brain has fully recovered from the shock. It is George. George who broke my heart, George who I cried over for two weeks, George the protagonist of my poem, George who dropped the polyamory bomb, George who I haven’t seen in a year and a month.
There is an awkward silence, until someone finally suggests we go in. We sit at separate tables, but my glance keeps wandering over to where he is sitting.
Lunch is a tedious matter; my voice is a little too shrill and I am forcefully jovial. Inside, my head is buzzing. I would like all the phones to ring at the same time, calling everybody away on important business. Leaving George and I alone.
We could talk then. What has he been doing? Feeling? Where does he live? What are his plans? I’ve heard he has a girlfriend. What is she like? I want to comb the last year month by month and compare notes on what we’ve lived separately, trying to figure out if it would have been possible to collide again.
I want to tell him how I can now play the Ukulele and sing, and maybe we can play music together sometime? I’ll tell him how I have an appointment after lunch to buy myself a touring bike. Did he ever end up doing the bike tour to Greece we talked about last year? No? Ah, well any chance we can do it together this year?
They get up and leave. He doesn’t glance my way. Did I imagine it, or did he maybe for that one hour in that shared space, fantasise about being with me too?