reflection

It was his fault for not seeing far enough ahead. Sometimes we forget that the moment we’re living in only lasts for a second, if that. Planning for the future is crucial to survival and success. Maybe he was thinking ahead, but just in the wrong direction. He said they were supposed to be together forever. Well, maybe not forever, but he saw no reason why they would leave. But seeing no reason doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist. I mean, why would he ever think otherwise? This is what he tells me.

We want so badly for things to work out a certain way that sometimes we are preventing ourselves from seeing what the Universe is really trying to communicate. Sometimes we blind ourselves to what’s actually happening.

And that’s what he was; blind. Sure, he had will, but what is will once you peel away all of the layers of stories telling you that where there’s a will there’s a way? If you are a paraplegic, you are not going to win the Boston Marathon.

So here he sits, talking to me. My relationship to him is not important. Neither is his name, age, occupation, or preference of boxers over briefs. What is important is what he has to tell me. He has a strange, unconscious habit of not looking directly into someone’s eyes when he speaks. He scans the room around us, sometimes flirting with the notion of eye contact by staring at the tip of my right ear, or the short bristles of my beard, or the engraved faux-crystal research award sitting on an end-table next to my sofa. Knowing him, I do not think less of him because of this habit, but I do worry that it stems from some underlying phobia.

He relayed his story of heartbreak and abandonment with a heavy tone, as can be expected. The inflection of his voice conveyed the prevalent astonishment from which he had suffered. Always avoiding eye contact, I could see the tears welling up along his eyelids whenever he looked up at the ceiling. He was not the crying type; not emotional, but could be passionate at times. It’s cliché to say he bottled up his feelings, but that’s exactly what he did. So seeing the slightest amount of salty discharge bubble up under his pupils caught me by surprise.

If I ignored the fact that he was not an emotional person, the tears that came when he spoke of her were fitting. Having been with her for so long, and then her not being there anymore, had a tremendous impact on him. To avoid too much anonymity, her name was Tilda. He had sat on the couch across from me multiple times, and had told me of their problems and the good times both, but he had never been this upset. Tilda was everything to him. I knew this not because he had told me so, but because I knew it for myself. I had serious doubt about his ability to piece himself back together after her departure. He had devoted so much time to her and what they were, I was confident he would have trouble figuring out what to do next and how to go on with his life.

And then there was Musa. Their child.

Admittedly, a strange name for a child, boy or girl, but that is neither here nor there. Musa was the little girl born into existence via the love he and Tilda shared, and the obvious science of reproduction. Having her gone as well was extremely hard on him, and understandably so. As many times as he talked about his life with Tilda, his stories about Musa were among the most memorable. What little emotion he did share was almost always conveyed through these stories.

Because of my objectivity, cold-heartedness, or whatever other reasons you may use to describe me, I find it hard to imagine two people having such a profound effect on me. Sure, I loved my parents, and I think I may have been in love once in my formative years, but overall I am not one to willfully accept outside effects upon my state of being.

Our general protection of our emotions was perhaps something over which we founded our relationship. A common bond of emotional walls. And sometimes windows.

Regardless of my lack of experience with love and loss and my inability to comprehend how one could love others so willfully and genuinely, I was still able to understand his pain. After all, one does not have to know how something affects one to understand that it has any affect at all.

So as I sat there, watching his eyes dart around my face, listening to the anguish in his voice as he told me of Tilda and Musa, I thought the appropriate action to take would be to sit there quietly, and allow him to express himself. Even if I hadn’t experienced what he had, I could still learn from him and his stories. I stayed seated, calm and collected.

He told me of a time when he and Tilda drove Musa to the park. A smile briefly lit up his face through slightly murky tears as he recalled in detail how Musa gave names to every duck she saw, and how Tilda’s smile could light up the darkest of rooms. Being a man of science, I find that hard to believe, but I understand that was an example of hyperbole.

Musa had not been around long enough in their lives for him to tell me what color corsage she wore to her high school prom, stories of her learning to drive, or even when she first learned her multiplication tables. But to him, I could tell he was just happy he had any stories to tell at all. They seemed to be helping him cope with this loss. I may hypothesize that the amount of time from which stories can be drawn is indirectly proportional to the amount of time it takes to “get over” a loss. I’m still working out the kinks.

He was not married to Tilda. Not legally. But in their state of devotion to one another, marriage seemed more of an unnecessary contractual agreement. From what I gathered, they viewed “marriage” as just a term; they didn’t need it to feel complete. I knew him before he met Tilda, and being the objective person that I am, I noticed a definite positive attitude adjustment in him since she had come into his life.

I didn’t see as much of him in the post-Tilda era as I did in the pre-Tilda era, but this was not a surprise to me. It’s just an observation of his desire to be in a loving, caring relationship with someone whom he completely adores. He still came to me, though. He came to me to talk, ask for guidance, borrow my car. I didn’t ask for anything in return. I didn’t want anything in return.

He continued his stories of his two loves into the night. Well, it could’ve been daytime. It’s entirely possible that he talked for so long I lost track of time. Again, not a judgment. Observation.

By the time he seemingly ran out of tears, his stories simultaneously ended. He leaned back on the couch and looked directly at me.

He made eye contact.

Surprised, my eyes widened and I leaned back in my couch as well. This was new. There was a long silence at this point. I believe both of us were waiting for the other to say something, anything. I wasn’t sure what to say. I usually don’t say much during our talks, but I felt like it was my turn. But still, I was at a loss.

When he had first told me of the crash, the one that took the lives of Tilda and Musa, it was the most painful thing he had ever revealed, and understandably so given the amount he cared for them. In the weeks afterward, telling me stories seemed to be the best way for him to recover from their sudden deaths. I was content with merely listening, whether in the lab or at my home. But I don’t think he realized what having them out of his life truly meant.

Without them there was pain, abandonment, sorrow, but also freedom and relief. I’m sure he’ll come to understand this one of these days. His current situation is better for our work, our goals. He had the same faux-crystal trophy sitting next to his couch as well; a small reminder of what we had already accomplished, and what was left to gain.

Minutes had passed and I still hadn’t spoken to him, although he still stared into my eyes. His gaze was fixed, but his face changed. I could visibly see his jaw tighten, his hands clenched. The fear and despair had worn off of him. I could see hate and loathing now. I think he knew. But I never said I was trying to hide what happened.

I had anticipated he would become angry with me if and when he found out I severed the brake lines to Tilda’s sedan, so his current reaction was expected. The smiling picture on his nametag attached to the lapel of his lab coat was a stark contrast to the facial expression that was presently staring at me. I wondered if he would let out his anger as well as he had just done with his sadness. I wondered how long that would take before we could leave our seats. I wondered if now we could finally complete our work, our mission; something at which we were great.

I could keep wondering about what would happen next, about whether his emotions would get in the way of what we had left to accomplish. I could think of several violent reactions he could exhibit, more than likely toward me. Or I could simply stare at him, and he could stare at me for hours in an endless stalemate. But these contemplations were of no importance.

I finally stood up to walk away. One of us had to break first. I had turned my back to him for a brief second. Rounding the corner of the couch, I could still feel him staring. That unquantifiable and unwanted feeling of guilty rage pierced my core, heated my body, boiled my blood, and reddened my eyes.

And it was then that I remembered the truth of our connection to one another. Not the relationship, but the connection. The truth that I could understand what he felt because of his proximity to me. His intimacy. His self. He was now the only one who would allow me to feel, despite my proclivity to avoid the emotional connection. And that made me incredibly angry.

I felt sadness. I felt pain. I felt frustration. I felt guilt. I…felt.

This is what I feared.

In that moment of unguarded emotion, I grabbed the jagged crystal trophy from the end-table and flung it in his direction with the force of all of my hatred behind it.

And with a deafening crash, the mirror shattered to the floor.