they sit at the back table, having dinner. not exactly a special occasion, just getting out of the house and giving both of them a night without dishing washing. they take turns entertaining the child; who has eaten and is not yet old enough to be willing to grant someone else’s needs space over their own.
the man startles slightly. his cell phone, clipped to his side, has gone off. obviously, unexpectedly. habit reveals him as he involuntarily unclips it and is looking at it before he can stop himself.
a flash of impatience flits over the woman’s face, but her voice is neutral as she asks, “who is it?”
he makes a small face of annoyance and slides the phone back into its belt-clip, “it’s nothing. i’ll handle it later.”
* * *
they sit at home, watching television. the child is sleeping on his stomach as he channel surfs. upstairs, the computer dings softly, indicating new arrivals. the woman, coming downstairs, calls as she moves to the kitchen, “i think your computer needs you.”
he confirms hearing her, “no worries. can’t be work at this hour. i’ll get it later.”
* * *
they are visiting the grandparents. old hands cradling young legacy as the conversation drifts and turns around the mundane, comfortable sharing that is blood to the body of family.
in the car, the phone, stashed in the glove compartment, rings….. rings…. rings…. rings…. them falls silent. a minute later, a short twitch and a chime. voicemail.
the day continues without interruption. later that night, he listens to it as he is preparing for bed. shaking his head, he deletes it and sets the phone down then turns to the hallway, already forgetting as night-time thoughts arrive.
* * *
in a small apartment, a woman lays upon a mat and stares at the ceiling. she thinks about the reality of being marginal and easily relegated to the sidelines; the quick, one liners that whisper, “not now, i’m busy”, and the ever-increasing silence.
upon the ceiling, she plays a movie of compressed time called memory and asks herself if the label she would choose for their relation to one another is accurate. she admits reluctantly that the place she is given in it is not the one that would normally fit within the current label. and she averts her eyes and ignores the label that sits, unclaimed, nearby.
the third sits yet a bit away, but is moving closer. its letters are stenciled, heavy ink that cannot be overwritten. she chuckles for the dark humor of that and slowly rolls up and off the mat.
fingers upon an aluminum keyboard… she is typing. this time the message goes nowhere. it rests upon a single, unlined page tacked to the corkboard at her virtual home:
i recently said i was not going to be waiting around for you anymore. that if or when you wanted to talk to me, you knew where to find me. the resulting silence, broken only by my own contradictions, bids me to consistency and continuance.
i comply.
beyond this point, to be as silent as the silence i hear and take the waiting table from my world completely. just as i no more wait in one place, i will no more wait in others.
no, there will be no ‘duologues’ wherein i send something and hope you will make time to respond.
no, there will be no more requests that will only be found inconvenient and thus, ignored.
no more random emails trying to maintain contact.
i am not a toy, to be picked up or set down, to be shunted off to a corner with the occasional pat on the head to pacify me.
i am a human being who is deserving of the expressions of care that are part and parcel of expressing the existence of care.
i realize my geo-location makes me ‘unreal’ in your world, for all you would deny it. there are ‘nights’ in which those who are ‘real’ receive. there is no ‘distant friend night’, nor will there be, from all signs.
amare et sapere vix deo conceditur. acta non verba, ad rem – age quod agis.
amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore.