A letter from the deceased
There was a time when I mentally prepared myself everytime I went downtown. What would I say if I turned a corner and there she was, turning the same corner from the other direction? Would I pretend not to recognize her and walk on, or would I say something graceful and ask her to join me for coffee, or would I stutter and falter? What would she say? Flat out refusal?
It's odd. It has been, I think, four years to the day since I first saw her in the Lyric upon moving to Blacksburg. I had stopped preparing myself to see her years ago, and so it hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I kept walking--perhaps the movie, A Scanner Darkly, had been a little bit more disorienting than I had realized.
We stopped when we got outside the door. I didn't have time to process it. Had she seen me, recognized me? Was it even her, or just a person who looked like her? It would not be the first time today that I had seen a familiar figure that turned out to be completely unfamiliar.
But she and her companion were walking towards the exit, towards us. Eye contact. Ashamed for no reason, I looked at the ground. Should I respect her desire from three years ago that I leave her alone? Certainly she was right to request it, then. On the other hand, perhaps she'd take my lack of a greeting as coldness or lack of recognition.
But the possibilities were running through me like when life flashes before the eyes, and I could not make sense of them. She walked by, and I looked up, just in time to see her walking away and into the tunnel. Suddenly I wished I had smiled at her, at least, and had four or five conflicting deires. Run away. Walk away. Follow her, stop her, say something.
It's not that I feel that strongly about her anymore. It's that I felt this jolt the first time I saw her, in Oxford, and then every time I saw her after that. A spark, the spark that I had once believed was fate poking me in the eye saying don't just look, talk to her. I still don't know why it feels like I've stuck my fingers in an electrical socket everytime I see her, but at one time I had been accustomed to the sensation so that it didn't affect me.
I had convinced myself it was my imagination. Perhaps it was.
My mind abandoned the friends who had accompanied me to the movie at that point, and we sat at a bench. They chatted, and I wished I had at least smiled. Wished I had said, "You were right about everything." Wished for rejection over this void.
It's the strangest feeling when your brain is trying to form several emotions at once. Normally, I consider the way I feel, and then track down the source. If I'm happy, I encourage it. If I'm sad, I avoid thinking about it. This time, I didn't know what I was feeling or why--like being lost in the pitch black, looking for a light switch or a flashlight that might not even be there.
I excused myself from my friends, eventually, and went for a walk. I felt a bit like a ghost, not really communicating with anyone. Every figure I saw in the distance--on the walk home--was her.
This week has been far too surreal and included far too many shocks and unbelievables--almost as if I were back in Moscow. Khan's, then Will, then A Scanner Darkly, then her. Not to mention the two wolf whistles I got on the walk home.
But at least life is interesting, and at least I'm happy.
It's odd. It has been, I think, four years to the day since I first saw her in the Lyric upon moving to Blacksburg. I had stopped preparing myself to see her years ago, and so it hit me like a blow to the solar plexus. I kept walking--perhaps the movie, A Scanner Darkly, had been a little bit more disorienting than I had realized.
We stopped when we got outside the door. I didn't have time to process it. Had she seen me, recognized me? Was it even her, or just a person who looked like her? It would not be the first time today that I had seen a familiar figure that turned out to be completely unfamiliar.
But she and her companion were walking towards the exit, towards us. Eye contact. Ashamed for no reason, I looked at the ground. Should I respect her desire from three years ago that I leave her alone? Certainly she was right to request it, then. On the other hand, perhaps she'd take my lack of a greeting as coldness or lack of recognition.
But the possibilities were running through me like when life flashes before the eyes, and I could not make sense of them. She walked by, and I looked up, just in time to see her walking away and into the tunnel. Suddenly I wished I had smiled at her, at least, and had four or five conflicting deires. Run away. Walk away. Follow her, stop her, say something.
It's not that I feel that strongly about her anymore. It's that I felt this jolt the first time I saw her, in Oxford, and then every time I saw her after that. A spark, the spark that I had once believed was fate poking me in the eye saying don't just look, talk to her. I still don't know why it feels like I've stuck my fingers in an electrical socket everytime I see her, but at one time I had been accustomed to the sensation so that it didn't affect me.
I had convinced myself it was my imagination. Perhaps it was.
My mind abandoned the friends who had accompanied me to the movie at that point, and we sat at a bench. They chatted, and I wished I had at least smiled. Wished I had said, "You were right about everything." Wished for rejection over this void.
It's the strangest feeling when your brain is trying to form several emotions at once. Normally, I consider the way I feel, and then track down the source. If I'm happy, I encourage it. If I'm sad, I avoid thinking about it. This time, I didn't know what I was feeling or why--like being lost in the pitch black, looking for a light switch or a flashlight that might not even be there.
I excused myself from my friends, eventually, and went for a walk. I felt a bit like a ghost, not really communicating with anyone. Every figure I saw in the distance--on the walk home--was her.
This week has been far too surreal and included far too many shocks and unbelievables--almost as if I were back in Moscow. Khan's, then Will, then A Scanner Darkly, then her. Not to mention the two wolf whistles I got on the walk home.
But at least life is interesting, and at least I'm happy.