the mountain in Topanga
and being shattered into a million piece, then picking oneself up.
Thanks JZ, CN, and TA for the editorial notes and feedback. You can also catch this on my website.
4:47AM.
He is crouched at the edge of the deck, looking down at nothing. His arms are folded, his hands clenched, fingers curled toward his body as if trying to draw it in. A distant coyote wails on the ridge; the sound fades, retreating. He moves back to his usual reading chair, studying the hump of the hill beyond the terraced garden. The room behind him stays in shadow, only the loose white curtain fluttering a little in the quiet wind. The sky is shifting now, from the deep indigo black of night to its first inky outlines of mountains. A rosy glow seeps into the eastern sky past the shoulder of Topanga. A few, last ragged night clouds linger in silhouette against it, and suddenly a faint plume of fog uncurls, flaring rose-gold, luminous as breath. The hills swim into half-form, breathing with him. Time still belongs to the realm of uncertainty, the gentle dissolution of dreams. When the light comes fully, it will be time to begin again.
He comes back into the hollow house. At once the stale smell of coffee pounded head-on in the refractory chill. There was a light hush; stillness stretched for a long time after the abrupt bird-song, the soft rush of breeze against the windows. The living room was in shadow again. Only the faint orange glow from the upstairs hallway slanted across the reading nook. He settled on the sofa. Beside him lay the newspaper that had fallen to the floor. Creased down the middle, it lay open, centre-dome, and his eye fell first on the bold headline: _City Council Calls Local Supporting Candidate for Supervisor_. The rest of the sheet held less pressing news: politics, a possible wildfire this summer. The quiet light touched his bare feet and felt like warm.
He takes orange juice and coffee, pushes the cup and saucer together with a slight clink and carries them out to the back steps where he sits with the newspaper, sips the drinks and reads. The phone rings; once, twice; he does not hear it. Eventually he puts the paper down. Gets up. Goes back to the desk. Turns on the computer. Sits stiffly, waiting. He has promised her he will write a letter of appreciation to Miss McGinnis. He must. Words elude him. He writes almost nothing. The printed draft splutters into the digital void. He turns off the monitor, stares at the blinking cursor. And all the time, somehow, his mind wanders, searching. Always. Always searching. It does not stay lost in pursuit of wisps and echoes. It finds her. A gentle smile at the back of his mind; a whisper of her voice, always so ready for the easy conversation that made them feel so companionably at ease with one another. That feeling in his chest whenever kindness or understanding caught her completely unawares.
The filtered hush of early morning stirred feelings of sadness again. He sat for a few minutes, not sure whether it was the landscape or his chest that was grieving. When he got back to the room, he sat and stared out over the hued ridge, pastel light on wintery tree limbs, and realized that the sorrow he carried was unresolved. So, the words evaporated. “They never have,” Kafka wrote to Milena. “One day, your written kisses will reach their destination, for we are all surrounded by a great number of invisible ghosts.” It was some minutes later when the phone in his pocket pinged with a muzzy echo. Three tiny bubbles appeared and disappeared on the screen. An SMS cleared up: “I didn’t mean to say any of those things. I know we don’t have anything in common. I meant something else. It’s probably best we don’t see each other any more. But I do care about you. I just can’t give you what I know you’re asking for.” Another click, then another message: “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that I think your presence is getting in the way of the space that I need in order to make the kind of romantic connection that I feel you deserve. It’s very strange and absurd, and I’m not sure I can explain it. All I know is that, at this stage in my life, I like being by myself. I want to think about who I am and how I want to live my life. That way, I can figure out the kind of relationship I need to have, and be with someone who will stay with me in my future. Right now, I can’t imagine being in a relationship that deserves the kind of attention and energy you want it to have. That being said, I don’t want you to think that I don’t value how special you are. I’d much rather see you with someone else that isn’t me.” It was some minutes before he responded. He recalled the thoughts and sentiments of Camus and wondered whether they should have resolved things in some way. She clearly knew him better than he did, and maybe he should have known that what he had to offer could not satisfy what she wanted. But how could he have expected her to answer in kind? There were times when he had literally been incapable of standing being himself. He said that he was sorry he had upset her and asked her whether she wanted him to say anything else. She did the same, and he likewise said he had nothing more to say. He received a further ping: “Coffee next week?” He replied that coffee sounded good and smiled in the way he usually did when he smiled.