something about our hello

After he finished his part—a self-introduction to his new colleagues—he suddenly looked very old. His words disappeared from my memory as soon as he stopped talking. Maybe I was distracted by the turn; his gaze, turned down, threw a shadow on us all. The meeting went on like nothing happened.

The poor boy wanted to make a splash. But, as he expected, he shrank into himself. I saw it. Did anybody else?

about a conversation at the office

A woman, Sue, from the policy division, stopped by the office Friday afternoon. She complimented Marcy on a photo Marcy keeps on her desk—closeup photo of a dog. Marcy said thank you. Then Sue reciprocated. She told us that she had her dog's DNA tested, and that the results revealed that quite a few varieties of dog contributed to its making. She provided us with her take on how each of the various breeds were represented in her dog's personality. Sue also shared some stories that illustrated each personality trait.

And a nearby coworker, Debbie, as it turns out, also has a dog. Of course, I knew this and much more beforehand, as she has mentioned it several dozen times. Debbie told us how her dog has started shitting on the two rugs her husband brought from Istanbul to the States. The dog wears diapers now. And, twice monthly, a patch of actual grass is delivered to Debbie's home; her odd son keeps this patch in his room for the dog to shit and piss on.

about dehumanization in routines

The day after my birthday, I grew sensitive to all the things that flash at me and beep at me, and I felt I did not have time for these things.

about the flight in

The Chinese girl was saving the middle seat for her man. She boarded long before him because she checked in on time. He arrived. Between sandy hair and a trim build is the prematurely aged face of hard living; he wears a flannel shirt as though he always does; she wears a flannel shirt to signal union. He leans over to her sometimes and speaks. His voice seems to quietly echo out of his mouth. Later, he will get up to use the restroom and end up waiting several minutes longer for his turn than expected. The Chinese girl will watch him, watching him for minutes while her iPhone continues streaming. Across the aisle from the Chinese girl and her fuckup boyfriend, a man takes a seat next to a young mother who cautions him, "Hope you don't mind a fussy baby!" He smiles and says he does not. The baby will sleep the entire flight, but he will take out a pair of fingernail clippers and go to work grooming at 30,000 feet. On my row, a grandmother pushes up the window shade with both hands, and the sun blasts through my eyes.

about how I probably won't see you anymore

Just like that, our friendship is over. I let it grow—forced it to grow, maybe—to ridiculous proportions in my mind. Rationalizing what I now know were disparities in how we felt about each other, I told myself our friendship was so great that I could only glimpse small parts of it at a time. But it was just never that big to begin with. I was getting all of it, and I just assumed there was more. But it was out of sight, out of mind for you.

about people

When someone tells me how smart their dog is, I think of how dumb the person must be.

about how everyone is so nice

When you move somewhere new, you might find a lot of the people there are nice. This is because you are more likely to ask people for help and information and, naturally, they oblige best they can. Where you're from, you rarely had to ask people for help because you knew the area, the weather patterns and expectations, the laws and ordinances, and so on. So people there were just people you had to share the city with. Your new neighbors are people you try to get along with.

dear prudence,

In the ensuing slump of days, moments and presence and details surrendered into the more easily categorizable "day" and "night"; one was for sleeping, the other, not sleeping. Pitifully, if only those two categories kissed in the permanent dusk of hopelessness, he could listen to Emo, maybe even enjoy it. But so relentlessly nameless were the times that nothing could be done.

Not until months later did he think to even look for her. When he did, he went about it craftily but efficiently, only looking in the most unlikely places: in the passenger seat, in the picture frame on his desk, and, early in the morning, lying next to him. Torture, a few days of this. Then he stopped and, on a sheet of wide ruled paper, wrote:

Today I listened to a song that not long ago reminded me of you. I hadn't heard it in awhile and, having come across it again, I feel now its connected not so much with you as with a time, a time that sounds ancient somehow, so I waited for dust to fill my nose.

Then I tried to think of an analogy: "You, your memory, is gum on my shoe: sticky at first, then less so, and then altogether less and less noticeable." But that sounded stupid and insulting and ugly--nothing like you. I know there is nothing like you. And I'll never not ever think of you again. I will think of you often at times, I expect. But now finally I'm getting on, I guess. Or,

But nothing else came to mind. So he folded the page, spelled her name on the front, and, with the magnet bearing the number for Poison Control, pinned the note on the refrigerator.

On the first of the month--16 days later--he restocked the refrigerator with fresh citrus and greens and a 12-pack of grape soda. Pushing closed the appliance door, he removed the note, walked to the study filing cabinet, and tucked the page away in the folder with his priciest receipts.

My man

He always cuts briskly through the office, efficient and determined. Like a man who just learned his plane started boarding at a different gate some 150 feet away. He looks together, but he dresses nicely, which only feeds my suspicion that he's a wreck. Today, dark gray wool pants and maroon shirt. Long sleeves, naturally. Like all the men in his family, he prefers stalls to urinals. Now, picture a cell buried in the flesh around his armpit; this is where cancer slumbers through the day. Some 3000 days from now, just after sipping the last of the coffee, seated in his kitchenette, it will wake and begin its spill through the lymphatic vessels. He will regret nothing.

In summary

In the dialog/play "The Critic as Artist" by Oscar Wilde, a witty provocateur named Gilbert spins off art-related value positions with his foil, a human sounding board named Ernest. In reply to one of Gilbert's most eloquent expositions--a take on Robert Browning as process--Ernest says, "There is something in what you say, but there is not everything in what you say." So true.


Applicable if you've:

• tried summing it up
• taken stock
• thought something was important
• felt something needed to be said

Notes:

"Porphyria's Lover"
      -by Robert Browning

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!