The First Promise is Made
I often dream that I am in love. These dreams are always drastically different experiences, each one more perplexing than the previous. My lover, who takes the form of either gender, any physical appearance really, with any kind of behavior or personality, retains a simple soft smile that is passed my way to secretly let me know that the dream is being repeated. Just the smile and I know that I am in love again.
It is frustrating to awaken after having these dreams. They are not always results of sexual frustration, mind you. They are simply reminders of the agonizing loneliness that haunts me. Mornings are like individual failures in another false relationship. Whoever said “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” quite obviously never suffered from my painful psychological condition.
I was in the midst of having tea with a younger woman. She had windswept black hair that curled into lazy spirals as it fell into her face. Her brown eyes were piercing my soul as she spoke in a gentle voice about high school biology. She was not in high school, this much I could tell. I must have already decided that it was another dream. I would like to give my intellect that much credit. Unfortunately, I was just as surprised as I always was when I was suddenly pulled back into reality.
This time I fell from a comfortable position on a couch onto a hard tile floor. The manuscript I must have been reading tumbled from my chest to the floor as well, sliding near a pair of sneakers. As I slowly managed to escape the hold of grogginess and regain my fragile composure after my fall, the occupier of the sneakers bent down to pick up the manuscript and then offered me a hand as well.
“Sorry, man. I should have woken you up more gentle like.” It was the young man from the library’s café. I must have been in the library. That conclusion made sense. My last memory before dozing off was attempting to read a dull fantasy novel while lounging on the small couch in the café. So much for caffeine, the coffee obviously didn’t keep me awake through the intensely boring storyline.
The boy’s strong arm pulled me to my feet. I brushed myself off and relieved him of the manuscript. I was doing him more of a favor than he realized. The story was more than definitely capable of destroy precious brain cells, and it was my theory that teenagers these days could use all the cells they could hang on to.
“Are you all right?” he asked, staring at me with concern. He was still talking to me, how peculiar. It hadn’t quite occurred to me yet that I still hadn’t answered him.
“Oh, um, yes,” I said as I realized my silence was creating an increasingly awkward situation. “Thank you,” I added as a quick afterthought.
“No problem. I’m glad you’re all right. I don’t want anyone getting bruised on my shift.” He turned his back to me, returning to a chore that had apparently been paused when he woke me up. He was sweeping the floor. I was regaining my bearings, finding myself surprised to notice that I was the only one left in the café, possibly the only one in the entire library.
“By the way,” he said, in the midst of his sweeping, “the library is closing in like, five minutes. You should probably check out your books and go home. That is, if you have somewhere to go home to.” What was that comment about? How many homeless men did he know like me? The suit was Armani, even.
I decided not to question his words and simply made my way towards the library exit. I didn’t need to check out a book. I had just gone to the library for a quiet place to think. I never needed to check out a book with my profession. As one of three acquisitions editors for a small publishing company, I was able to content myself with every terribly written unsolicited manuscript I could ever want. Obviously this one, sending me into an unwanted nap mid afternoon, was not going to make the cut.
My apartment was not far from the library, and I only had to walk a few blocks to get home. I felt silly admitting that I had chosen the apartment I was living in for its close proximity to the library. Certainly a man like me should be keener on placing his living quarters near to a bustling bar or some other place to which young singles are drawn. I had to admit that perhaps the ranking of intellectualism in my life was taking a toll on my potential for forming new relationships.
I walked the city streets with a steady, casual stride. I was dressed like any other executive, just with notably fewer electrical communication devices attached to me. The only grip my job had on me at the moment was the number to the cellular phone in my pocket, the floppy manuscript in a thick leather binder that was tucked under my arm comfortably, and my increasing psychological need for new stories to read. Though, as I thought about it, maybe my job had a stronger hold on me than an average business executive’s career did on him.
I wondered as I walked whether or not the café boy at the library enjoyed drinking tea or if his probable preference for coffee was set in stone. He was obviously not the raven haired beauty from my most recent dream, a dream whose memory was already beginning to fade. I couldn’t help but wonder though, if the universe was sending me messages to help me find someone to keep me company, even a friend. Not that it mattered, if the café boy had been given to me by the universe, I had either already blown my chances or I was to be given further opportunities which could also be just as tragic for me. I made a mental note to ask the forces of the universe to be a bit more direct the next time they give me guidance.
I was still thinking so deeply by the time I reached my apartment that I walked past it. It only took a few more steps for me to notice that I was reaching a corner that was not in my regular walking route. I had to hastily turn around and go back to the front door.
Though my pay sometimes fluctuated with how well the business happened to be doing, my apartment definitely did not show it. I was almost ashamed to admit to exactly how much of my parents’ money had assisted me. I typically didn’t think too much of it though, as I rarely found myself with interests that required much further use of that money.
A larger apartment sometimes served to make me more comfortable, but also managed to make me even lonelier at times. It was actually two levels, almost like a small house, simply connected to a building instead of standing on its own in a suburban community. I just wanted space. I wanted a place to lie down and enough floor to pace. I liked to have physical space because it gave me more mental space to think.
I dropped the manuscript onto the coffee table, noting that the mug of coffee I had only half finished had been removed, presumably washed and put back into a cabinet. The cleaning girl I had hired must have already done her work for the day. She was notable (at least in my mind) for her ability to surprise me. I never really knew when she was going to come, only that it would be three times a week. It was possible that I had hired her to do more than was necessary. Rarely does one person living on their own build up too much clutter. Nevertheless, on the days that I managed to catch her while she was cleaning, it gave me someone to talk to.
I was somewhat disappointed today that I didn’t get a chance to see her. She always had a few interesting stories to tell me, even if she did have a tendency to turn up loud music while she worked.
My apartment was uncomfortably silent. I was used to not having any noise when I was home alone, but it always came as a shock when I first returned. It was an awkward transition from the city streets to an empty apartment.
I briefly considered listening to the messages on my answering machine. However, I knew that most, if not all, of those messages would be from my mother telling me various tidbits of gossip that I didn’t want to know, attempting to set me up with women that I didn’t want to meet, or lecture me on aspects of my life that I didn’t want to change. She and I had developed an understanding after I moved out. I would often pretend that I didn’t receive any of the messages she left for me, and she would pretend to believe me as I told her this when she finally did manage to make me pick up the phone. I decided to ignore the messages and relax for a few days before I talked to her again.
Sitting at home, on my own couch, I felt more comfortable with the possibility of falling asleep. I could rest easily knowing that I wouldn’t wake up in a locked and empty public building.
The manuscript on my coffee table lurked miserably for the few minutes that I sat on the couch. I stared at it with an equally miserable feeling as I contemplated attempting to read it again. It was taunting me with my moral obligation to give all amateur literature a chance.
As was my usual routine when mentally preparing to finish reading a decidedly worthless story, I took off my constricting tie, paced the hardwood floor in my socks for a while, then poured myself a drink and sat back down on the couch. It was a simple process that I went through nearly every evening. I was ashamed to admit that the highlights of my weeks were the days that I managed to cross paths with the cleaning girl. Every other day I sat at home alone, sighing sadly at the lack of decent conversation in my life.
This day had already had its share of excitement. After all, it was a rare occasion that I managed to completely mortify myself at the local public library. In my opinion, that event was going to be the evening’s thrills in their entirety.
Unfortunately, and it is so incredibly unfortunate too, I happened to be wrong on this particular day.
I had barely gotten through half my glass of whiskey, and I was already dozing off due to the severe shallowness of the manuscript I was reading. I really did pity the writer. They were attempting to tell a story with so much depth and failing entirely to get their point across. No matter how pedantic their word choice became, the story was still a failure in its execution.
I was both alarmed and thrilled when I heard a knock at my door. On the one hand, nobody ever visited me unless it was by mistake or to bring some kind of bad news. On the other hand, the story I was reading was, as I have said already, dreadfully dull.
Whether or not it was a mistaken companion of a close neighbor knocking at my door or some man in uniform bringing forth evidence that linked me to a murder trial, I was happy for the break. I practically leapt to my feet and swung the door open before even glancing at who was on the other side.
A young man in sunglasses and a vintage leather jacket stood on the other side of my door. His hair was fashionably styled and perhaps even highlighted. He leaned slightly with a surly attitude and a small smirk visible on his face. He kept his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans as he and I exchanged looks for a moment. It was nearly impossible to read him properly with those obnoxious sunglasses blocking his eyes.
After it became apparent to him that I was too lost in thought about whether he bought the jeans he was wearing in the state of disrepair that they were or if he had somehow managed to wear them down on their own, he lifted the dark lenses from his brown eyes and stared at me with a more concerned look.
“You don’t recognize me, Rey?” Of course, I recognized him. Now, that is. Now that he spoke, he was unmistakably Christian Westerveldt, heir to a fortune built on wine, vineyards, and possibly organized crime.
“Christian,” I said tersely, forcing myself to smile. All of the memories from high school and college were flooding back to me in that moment. I often found myself plagued by insolent “family friends” that I was forced to associate with at various gatherings. Christian’s family and mine were, in my opinion, obnoxiously too close for my comfort. Somehow, this man, who was nearly exactly my age but always managed to look ten years younger, was expertly trained to find awkward times in my life to simply pop in.
I was almost ready to invite him in for a drink to make uncomfortable small talk, but then, I saw the suitcase on the ground next to his feet and my hand clenched painfully on the door. He immediately noticed my strained expression and a look of worry came over his face.
“I would have called, but you never seem to be home,” he said, awkwardly trying to explain himself. “Your mother told me that she informed you of everything.”
I thought about the growing pile of messages on my answering machine that I had yet to listen to. My heart sank as I realized I had already trapped myself into whatever she had agreed I would do.
“My mother… She’s very old and sick…”
“She said it would be okay if I crashed at your place for a while. My dad threw me out again, and I don’t have anywhere else to go right now so I…” His voice trailed off sadly. I was too smart to fall for his little pathetic act, but I was too caring not to give in to him. I moved aside to let him in my apartment and quickly shut the door after him.
“How… How long?” I managed to ask.
“Just like, a week at the most. I’m supposed to be in rehab after everything the tabloids said about me. I just have to hang out here and go jogging a few times so that some photos get taken of me and everyone will forget about my last party.” He was already out of his shoes and on my couch, making himself at home. The jacket had been thrown onto a nearby chair. I picked it up and went over to put it on a hanger in the closet.
“You drink hard alcohol, Rey?” The idiot was still talking to me and now drinking my whiskey. I had a feeling that I would have had a bit more if I had any idea Christian was planning on showing up at my door.
“So, what’s this you were saying about rehab?” I asked him.
“Don’t you read the papers? People keep saying I’m an alcoholic, and I need help. My dad said that I couldn’t stay in his house if I didn’t get a job or go to rehab. I can usually avoid both by staying at a friend’s house for a while until things cool down,” Christian explained.
“And I take it you’re quickly running out of available friends.” He apparently thought my comment was quite hilarious. I realized after a few moments of his snickering that I was the only one with any serious concern about the situation.
He had apparently given up on further explaining himself. The mere fact that he was now sitting in my apartment with his feet propped up on my coffee table proved that he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps I was too much of a pushover when faced with his manipulation techniques. I decided to justify him staying with me as a great act of goodwill and sat back down the couch, reassuring myself that the extra conversation would be a pleasant change.
“You’re still doing the book thing, huh?” Christian said, flipping through the manuscript that I had left nearby. His way with words never ceased to astound me.
We gave up on talking for a while after that. He had turned on the television, a substitute for human contact that I could rarely bring myself to turn to. I think perhaps that, over the years, we had come to know each other a bit too well, so much so that we had completely given up on the idea of small talk. We continued on that way for a few hours. I picked up the manuscript again. He finished off my glass of whiskey and poured himself a refill.
In fact, we didn’t speak again that night until a thought struck me much later in the evening.
“Christian,” I said to the young man who was dozing off next to me due to a mixture of alcohol and mindless television. He groaned slightly or mumbled something. I honestly couldn’t tell, but I assumed it was a reply.
“Promise me you won’t sleep with my maid,” I said firmly, despite the obvious concern in my voice. This sentence appeared to settle into his mind for a few seconds as he blinked and adjusted to look at me.
“For you, man, anything,” he said with a tiny, amused smirk on his face.
To be continued...
Hopefully the next installment is less corny and more interesting to read! Possibly longer too!
It is frustrating to awaken after having these dreams. They are not always results of sexual frustration, mind you. They are simply reminders of the agonizing loneliness that haunts me. Mornings are like individual failures in another false relationship. Whoever said “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all” quite obviously never suffered from my painful psychological condition.
I was in the midst of having tea with a younger woman. She had windswept black hair that curled into lazy spirals as it fell into her face. Her brown eyes were piercing my soul as she spoke in a gentle voice about high school biology. She was not in high school, this much I could tell. I must have already decided that it was another dream. I would like to give my intellect that much credit. Unfortunately, I was just as surprised as I always was when I was suddenly pulled back into reality.
This time I fell from a comfortable position on a couch onto a hard tile floor. The manuscript I must have been reading tumbled from my chest to the floor as well, sliding near a pair of sneakers. As I slowly managed to escape the hold of grogginess and regain my fragile composure after my fall, the occupier of the sneakers bent down to pick up the manuscript and then offered me a hand as well.
“Sorry, man. I should have woken you up more gentle like.” It was the young man from the library’s café. I must have been in the library. That conclusion made sense. My last memory before dozing off was attempting to read a dull fantasy novel while lounging on the small couch in the café. So much for caffeine, the coffee obviously didn’t keep me awake through the intensely boring storyline.
The boy’s strong arm pulled me to my feet. I brushed myself off and relieved him of the manuscript. I was doing him more of a favor than he realized. The story was more than definitely capable of destroy precious brain cells, and it was my theory that teenagers these days could use all the cells they could hang on to.
“Are you all right?” he asked, staring at me with concern. He was still talking to me, how peculiar. It hadn’t quite occurred to me yet that I still hadn’t answered him.
“Oh, um, yes,” I said as I realized my silence was creating an increasingly awkward situation. “Thank you,” I added as a quick afterthought.
“No problem. I’m glad you’re all right. I don’t want anyone getting bruised on my shift.” He turned his back to me, returning to a chore that had apparently been paused when he woke me up. He was sweeping the floor. I was regaining my bearings, finding myself surprised to notice that I was the only one left in the café, possibly the only one in the entire library.
“By the way,” he said, in the midst of his sweeping, “the library is closing in like, five minutes. You should probably check out your books and go home. That is, if you have somewhere to go home to.” What was that comment about? How many homeless men did he know like me? The suit was Armani, even.
I decided not to question his words and simply made my way towards the library exit. I didn’t need to check out a book. I had just gone to the library for a quiet place to think. I never needed to check out a book with my profession. As one of three acquisitions editors for a small publishing company, I was able to content myself with every terribly written unsolicited manuscript I could ever want. Obviously this one, sending me into an unwanted nap mid afternoon, was not going to make the cut.
My apartment was not far from the library, and I only had to walk a few blocks to get home. I felt silly admitting that I had chosen the apartment I was living in for its close proximity to the library. Certainly a man like me should be keener on placing his living quarters near to a bustling bar or some other place to which young singles are drawn. I had to admit that perhaps the ranking of intellectualism in my life was taking a toll on my potential for forming new relationships.
I walked the city streets with a steady, casual stride. I was dressed like any other executive, just with notably fewer electrical communication devices attached to me. The only grip my job had on me at the moment was the number to the cellular phone in my pocket, the floppy manuscript in a thick leather binder that was tucked under my arm comfortably, and my increasing psychological need for new stories to read. Though, as I thought about it, maybe my job had a stronger hold on me than an average business executive’s career did on him.
I wondered as I walked whether or not the café boy at the library enjoyed drinking tea or if his probable preference for coffee was set in stone. He was obviously not the raven haired beauty from my most recent dream, a dream whose memory was already beginning to fade. I couldn’t help but wonder though, if the universe was sending me messages to help me find someone to keep me company, even a friend. Not that it mattered, if the café boy had been given to me by the universe, I had either already blown my chances or I was to be given further opportunities which could also be just as tragic for me. I made a mental note to ask the forces of the universe to be a bit more direct the next time they give me guidance.
I was still thinking so deeply by the time I reached my apartment that I walked past it. It only took a few more steps for me to notice that I was reaching a corner that was not in my regular walking route. I had to hastily turn around and go back to the front door.
Though my pay sometimes fluctuated with how well the business happened to be doing, my apartment definitely did not show it. I was almost ashamed to admit to exactly how much of my parents’ money had assisted me. I typically didn’t think too much of it though, as I rarely found myself with interests that required much further use of that money.
A larger apartment sometimes served to make me more comfortable, but also managed to make me even lonelier at times. It was actually two levels, almost like a small house, simply connected to a building instead of standing on its own in a suburban community. I just wanted space. I wanted a place to lie down and enough floor to pace. I liked to have physical space because it gave me more mental space to think.
I dropped the manuscript onto the coffee table, noting that the mug of coffee I had only half finished had been removed, presumably washed and put back into a cabinet. The cleaning girl I had hired must have already done her work for the day. She was notable (at least in my mind) for her ability to surprise me. I never really knew when she was going to come, only that it would be three times a week. It was possible that I had hired her to do more than was necessary. Rarely does one person living on their own build up too much clutter. Nevertheless, on the days that I managed to catch her while she was cleaning, it gave me someone to talk to.
I was somewhat disappointed today that I didn’t get a chance to see her. She always had a few interesting stories to tell me, even if she did have a tendency to turn up loud music while she worked.
My apartment was uncomfortably silent. I was used to not having any noise when I was home alone, but it always came as a shock when I first returned. It was an awkward transition from the city streets to an empty apartment.
I briefly considered listening to the messages on my answering machine. However, I knew that most, if not all, of those messages would be from my mother telling me various tidbits of gossip that I didn’t want to know, attempting to set me up with women that I didn’t want to meet, or lecture me on aspects of my life that I didn’t want to change. She and I had developed an understanding after I moved out. I would often pretend that I didn’t receive any of the messages she left for me, and she would pretend to believe me as I told her this when she finally did manage to make me pick up the phone. I decided to ignore the messages and relax for a few days before I talked to her again.
Sitting at home, on my own couch, I felt more comfortable with the possibility of falling asleep. I could rest easily knowing that I wouldn’t wake up in a locked and empty public building.
The manuscript on my coffee table lurked miserably for the few minutes that I sat on the couch. I stared at it with an equally miserable feeling as I contemplated attempting to read it again. It was taunting me with my moral obligation to give all amateur literature a chance.
As was my usual routine when mentally preparing to finish reading a decidedly worthless story, I took off my constricting tie, paced the hardwood floor in my socks for a while, then poured myself a drink and sat back down on the couch. It was a simple process that I went through nearly every evening. I was ashamed to admit that the highlights of my weeks were the days that I managed to cross paths with the cleaning girl. Every other day I sat at home alone, sighing sadly at the lack of decent conversation in my life.
This day had already had its share of excitement. After all, it was a rare occasion that I managed to completely mortify myself at the local public library. In my opinion, that event was going to be the evening’s thrills in their entirety.
Unfortunately, and it is so incredibly unfortunate too, I happened to be wrong on this particular day.
I had barely gotten through half my glass of whiskey, and I was already dozing off due to the severe shallowness of the manuscript I was reading. I really did pity the writer. They were attempting to tell a story with so much depth and failing entirely to get their point across. No matter how pedantic their word choice became, the story was still a failure in its execution.
I was both alarmed and thrilled when I heard a knock at my door. On the one hand, nobody ever visited me unless it was by mistake or to bring some kind of bad news. On the other hand, the story I was reading was, as I have said already, dreadfully dull.
Whether or not it was a mistaken companion of a close neighbor knocking at my door or some man in uniform bringing forth evidence that linked me to a murder trial, I was happy for the break. I practically leapt to my feet and swung the door open before even glancing at who was on the other side.
A young man in sunglasses and a vintage leather jacket stood on the other side of my door. His hair was fashionably styled and perhaps even highlighted. He leaned slightly with a surly attitude and a small smirk visible on his face. He kept his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans as he and I exchanged looks for a moment. It was nearly impossible to read him properly with those obnoxious sunglasses blocking his eyes.
After it became apparent to him that I was too lost in thought about whether he bought the jeans he was wearing in the state of disrepair that they were or if he had somehow managed to wear them down on their own, he lifted the dark lenses from his brown eyes and stared at me with a more concerned look.
“You don’t recognize me, Rey?” Of course, I recognized him. Now, that is. Now that he spoke, he was unmistakably Christian Westerveldt, heir to a fortune built on wine, vineyards, and possibly organized crime.
“Christian,” I said tersely, forcing myself to smile. All of the memories from high school and college were flooding back to me in that moment. I often found myself plagued by insolent “family friends” that I was forced to associate with at various gatherings. Christian’s family and mine were, in my opinion, obnoxiously too close for my comfort. Somehow, this man, who was nearly exactly my age but always managed to look ten years younger, was expertly trained to find awkward times in my life to simply pop in.
I was almost ready to invite him in for a drink to make uncomfortable small talk, but then, I saw the suitcase on the ground next to his feet and my hand clenched painfully on the door. He immediately noticed my strained expression and a look of worry came over his face.
“I would have called, but you never seem to be home,” he said, awkwardly trying to explain himself. “Your mother told me that she informed you of everything.”
I thought about the growing pile of messages on my answering machine that I had yet to listen to. My heart sank as I realized I had already trapped myself into whatever she had agreed I would do.
“My mother… She’s very old and sick…”
“She said it would be okay if I crashed at your place for a while. My dad threw me out again, and I don’t have anywhere else to go right now so I…” His voice trailed off sadly. I was too smart to fall for his little pathetic act, but I was too caring not to give in to him. I moved aside to let him in my apartment and quickly shut the door after him.
“How… How long?” I managed to ask.
“Just like, a week at the most. I’m supposed to be in rehab after everything the tabloids said about me. I just have to hang out here and go jogging a few times so that some photos get taken of me and everyone will forget about my last party.” He was already out of his shoes and on my couch, making himself at home. The jacket had been thrown onto a nearby chair. I picked it up and went over to put it on a hanger in the closet.
“You drink hard alcohol, Rey?” The idiot was still talking to me and now drinking my whiskey. I had a feeling that I would have had a bit more if I had any idea Christian was planning on showing up at my door.
“So, what’s this you were saying about rehab?” I asked him.
“Don’t you read the papers? People keep saying I’m an alcoholic, and I need help. My dad said that I couldn’t stay in his house if I didn’t get a job or go to rehab. I can usually avoid both by staying at a friend’s house for a while until things cool down,” Christian explained.
“And I take it you’re quickly running out of available friends.” He apparently thought my comment was quite hilarious. I realized after a few moments of his snickering that I was the only one with any serious concern about the situation.
He had apparently given up on further explaining himself. The mere fact that he was now sitting in my apartment with his feet propped up on my coffee table proved that he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps I was too much of a pushover when faced with his manipulation techniques. I decided to justify him staying with me as a great act of goodwill and sat back down the couch, reassuring myself that the extra conversation would be a pleasant change.
“You’re still doing the book thing, huh?” Christian said, flipping through the manuscript that I had left nearby. His way with words never ceased to astound me.
We gave up on talking for a while after that. He had turned on the television, a substitute for human contact that I could rarely bring myself to turn to. I think perhaps that, over the years, we had come to know each other a bit too well, so much so that we had completely given up on the idea of small talk. We continued on that way for a few hours. I picked up the manuscript again. He finished off my glass of whiskey and poured himself a refill.
In fact, we didn’t speak again that night until a thought struck me much later in the evening.
“Christian,” I said to the young man who was dozing off next to me due to a mixture of alcohol and mindless television. He groaned slightly or mumbled something. I honestly couldn’t tell, but I assumed it was a reply.
“Promise me you won’t sleep with my maid,” I said firmly, despite the obvious concern in my voice. This sentence appeared to settle into his mind for a few seconds as he blinked and adjusted to look at me.
“For you, man, anything,” he said with a tiny, amused smirk on his face.
To be continued...
Hopefully the next installment is less corny and more interesting to read! Possibly longer too!