Pining - A Short Tale
A Short Tale:
Pining
He found himself wandering through the little antique shops and hidden alleys.
He had no idea what he was looking for, nothing probably. Peace of mind, some rest from the constant chatter in his head.
His thoughts had begun speaking in her voice lately. He wasn’t sure if he was going mad or just suffering from some temporary “affliction, brought on by a lover’s curse” as Prince would say.
Across the street a slight girl walked hand in hand with her teenage boyfriend. There was something in the way she walked with her head down, her hair covering her eyes like some gothic princess hiding her emotions from the world, that reminded him of her.
Her always her, everything in his life seemed to belong to her nowadays. It bugged him, intensely. When had he lost himself like this.
He had always prided himself on his strength of character, his ability to lift his bearded chin and face any adversity with a smile. No problem was too big, he could handle them all.
Bring it on.
Except her, she had got in under the radar somehow, blind-sided him. How had she done it, he had no idea, by being his friend probably.
He had explored this territory before with her and it hadn’t worked out. Now in his past experience that usually meant that, said girl, could safely be taken on board as a friend. Safe in the knowledge that he had seen her naked and survived.
So why was here? Why was he looking at antique furniture and old first edition manuscripts in a small coastal town when all he wanted was to get in his rental car and drive the 40km to her house.
“it’s a distraction,” he said out loud.
The sales clerk looked up from the book he was reading, itself an ancient, leather bound edition. He pushed back his wire rimmed glasses, (was there a law that antique dealers all had to wear wire rimmed glasses), “can I help you?”
“Sorry, no” his voice came out croaky and hoarse, “no thanks, just looking” he flashed his trademark smile and the clerk went back to his book.
Whisky, that’s what he needed, dull the senses a bit, but he just couldn’t bring himself to start drinking at 11am. That way lay madness, of that he was certain.
On the little (antique) radio sitting on the shelf behind the counter, half hidden amongst piles of books, an “oldie but a goldie” came on.
He couldn’t remember the band, but he knew the song
(shwashwa)
I only have eyes for you.
He giggled quietly under his breath. He was going mad, that was it, that made perfect sense.
All of sudden the smell of the books and smallness of the shop began to make him feel uneasy, a little claustrophobic with a touch of nausea.
He made his way to the door and with a little tinkle-tinkle of the bell hanging over the door he stepped out into the glaring sun-drenched street.
At first the change was so extreme that he nearly did pass out, then he steadied himself against a fortuitous lamp post.
Across the street the sea pounded against the sand and he thought that a little ocean breeze wouldn’t go amiss right now.
He cautiously made his way across and onto the sand. He thought of taking his shoes off but a single shard of green beer-bottle glass sticking out of the sand changed his mind. Instead he found his way down to the waters edge and sat down and stared out.
She had called him last night.
He had been sitting on his balcony in the early hours, staring out at the surf, her voice carrying him out into the darkness.
She whispered things, told him stories, played at the thought of them meeting out there. Somewhere beneath the stars and exploring the emotions which had been deemed forbidden in this world.
He sipped his whisky and dragged on his cigarette, hoping his silence made him sound cool, calm, instead his heart raced.
She would know anyway, she could read him by his breath, their ability to communicate non-verbally on a phone had been finely honed and perfected over hundreds of hours.
“I want you” she said.
“What?”
“You didn’t hear that, did you? It was all bad static on your end.”
He played along, “Yeah, sure, I didn’t.”
More silence, sometimes he wondered what percentage of their calls were silent, just air. Breathing. Heart beats.
“I want you too.” He said.
She inhaled deeply, then sighed.
He exhaled his smoke and watched it play in the street light by the balcony.
Outside was all crickets and sea, no other sound penetrated the night.
“I wish I could just drive there right now,”
“You know you can’t,” she said.
“I know,” exhale, long, hard, slightly broken.
Then she had to go, and just like that, this night’s saviour left him for the wolves.
But that was last night. Today the sun was shining, no more crickets. The deserted beach from 8 hours ago was now thronged with tourists. Dogs and surfers, and kids building castles. The traffic pounded behind him and he could hear a train whistle coming down the track.
Bright, crass, loud. No room for romantic notions in this harshness, surely.
He lit a smoke and pined for whisky.
Where was she now? Lounging in a bathtub, or maybe doing some shopping, maybe she was having lunch with her boyfriend, that neanderthal monster who held his happiness captive.
He had never met her boyfriend. Didn’t even know his name, or what he did. What he did know was that he made her happy, and that was the problem. If he had been the monster he imagined it would be easy to justify the kidnapping of his girlfriend. But he wasn’t. And so it goes.
And so it goes.
When they met, for lunch, or coffee, or some such excuse, they made no attempt at any contact whatsoever. To touch would lead to a contractual breach, neither of them trusted themselves enough to get that close.
Occasionally she would pass him a cigarette and their hands would brush, briefly, and hold for a second too long. Whenever she got up, her hands would rest lightly on his shoulders as she’d walk past, just enough to make his heart rate quicken and his body temperature rise.
He fantasised about taking her in his arms and kissing her, before she could object, before she could pull away. But he knew if he actually did that coffee would end up as breakfast.
The agony of being a good man.
He’d often wondered what would happen if he, for once, didn’t do the right thing. Didn’t suppress his urges for the sake of his morals.
That whisky was beginning to sound like a good idea again.
He ashed lightly on the sand, God’s ashtray, he had once called it and nearly been decked by his, then, environmentalist girlfriend. Susan, that was her name, whatever happened to her? Probably on some ship sailing around Antarctica no doubt. Well good luck to her. She was probably happy.
Bitch.
He looked out to sea. For a brief moment he thought he saw the tail of whale, then it was gone.
The view from here was truly breathtaking. He was sitting in a huge bay, surrounded on both sides by mountains. The water ahead blue-green and crystal clear.
And yet his mind turned to darkness, to night. Their conversations were always at night. When everyone had to gone to sleep, that’s where they hid their love, their passion, their lust.
The first night he had got here they had had dinner and then moved onto a local bar. When they were finally kicked out of there, (around three) they drove, on mountain tops, and through woods, searching for the perfect spot to view the sunrise, to see the night.
The next day he bought his first bottle of whisky.
He finished his third this morning, just before sunrise.
He couldn’t get drunk, no matter how hard he tried. He had put away half a bottle of Jack last night, between midnight and four am and he was still sober when he climbed into bed. And he lay there, awake, for another hour thinking of her.
Her, always her.
He remembered feeling like this when he was a teenager, over Betty, or Kate in his tenth grade class. Hundreds of sleepless nights, pining, whining in pain.
But at 32 this was ridiculous.
A part of him loved it of course, the poet in him. The raging hormonal teenager loved it too.
After years of being a grown up, a cynic about love, dealing with life responsibly, it felt wonderful to allow himself the freedom to jump head-first into this fire. It made him feel alive once more. His heart was still beating, and that was good.
Maybe that’s what this was, an exercise, to see if the parts still worked properly, and when he was fully satisfied that they did? Would it stop? Would it fade away like so many other infatuations?
Probably.
It was that reason, and that alone that stopped him from stealing her away from her safe, secure¸ existence and carrying her off to some small town in the middle of nowhere where they could live together in peace, away from the world.
She would paint, he would write. At night they would make love like it was their last night on earth and awake, surprised to find themselves alive and in each others arms.
What bliss, what heaven.
What bullshit.
Things would change, they always did.
So much for the cynic in him being dead.
No. This was all they had, all they could ever have, better to enjoy the shit out of it while they had the chance.
He flicked his smoke out into the sea, cringing at the thought of what Susan would to do him if she saw this act of heartless vandalism towards nature.
Fuck it. Humans would be gone three times over, before this world felt the slightest damage.
Fuck it. Fuck it all.
He stood up and walked down the beach to find a bar, he’d stalled long enough. The time for whisky had come.
He found himself wandering through the little antique shops and hidden alleys.
He had no idea what he was looking for, nothing probably. Peace of mind, some rest from the constant chatter in his head.
His thoughts had begun speaking in her voice lately. He wasn’t sure if he was going mad or just suffering from some temporary “affliction, brought on by a lover’s curse” as Prince would say.
Across the street a slight girl walked hand in hand with her teenage boyfriend. There was something in the way she walked with her head down, her hair covering her eyes like some gothic princess hiding her emotions from the world, that reminded him of her.
Her always her, everything in his life seemed to belong to her nowadays. It bugged him, intensely. When had he lost himself like this.
He had always prided himself on his strength of character, his ability to lift his bearded chin and face any adversity with a smile. No problem was too big, he could handle them all.
Bring it on.
Except her, she had got in under the radar somehow, blind-sided him. How had she done it, he had no idea, by being his friend probably.
He had explored this territory before with her and it hadn’t worked out. Now in his past experience that usually meant that, said girl, could safely be taken on board as a friend. Safe in the knowledge that he had seen her naked and survived.
So why was here? Why was he looking at antique furniture and old first edition manuscripts in a small coastal town when all he wanted was to get in his rental car and drive the 40km to her house.
“it’s a distraction,” he said out loud.
The sales clerk looked up from the book he was reading, itself an ancient, leather bound edition. He pushed back his wire rimmed glasses, (was there a law that antique dealers all had to wear wire rimmed glasses), “can I help you?”
“Sorry, no” his voice came out croaky and hoarse, “no thanks, just looking” he flashed his trademark smile and the clerk went back to his book.
Whisky, that’s what he needed, dull the senses a bit, but he just couldn’t bring himself to start drinking at 11am. That way lay madness, of that he was certain.
On the little (antique) radio sitting on the shelf behind the counter, half hidden amongst piles of books, an “oldie but a goldie” came on.
He couldn’t remember the band, but he knew the song
(shwashwa)
I only have eyes for you.
He giggled quietly under his breath. He was going mad, that was it, that made perfect sense.
All of sudden the smell of the books and smallness of the shop began to make him feel uneasy, a little claustrophobic with a touch of nausea.
He made his way to the door and with a little tinkle-tinkle of the bell hanging over the door he stepped out into the glaring sun-drenched street.
At first the change was so extreme that he nearly did pass out, then he steadied himself against a fortuitous lamp post.
Across the street the sea pounded against the sand and he thought that a little ocean breeze wouldn’t go amiss right now.
He cautiously made his way across and onto the sand. He thought of taking his shoes off but a single shard of green beer-bottle glass sticking out of the sand changed his mind. Instead he found his way down to the waters edge and sat down and stared out.
She had called him last night.
He had been sitting on his balcony in the early hours, staring out at the surf, her voice carrying him out into the darkness.
She whispered things, told him stories, played at the thought of them meeting out there. Somewhere beneath the stars and exploring the emotions which had been deemed forbidden in this world.
He sipped his whisky and dragged on his cigarette, hoping his silence made him sound cool, calm, instead his heart raced.
She would know anyway, she could read him by his breath, their ability to communicate non-verbally on a phone had been finely honed and perfected over hundreds of hours.
“I want you” she said.
“What?”
“You didn’t hear that, did you? It was all bad static on your end.”
He played along, “Yeah, sure, I didn’t.”
More silence, sometimes he wondered what percentage of their calls were silent, just air. Breathing. Heart beats.
“I want you too.” He said.
She inhaled deeply, then sighed.
He exhaled his smoke and watched it play in the street light by the balcony.
Outside was all crickets and sea, no other sound penetrated the night.
“I wish I could just drive there right now,”
“You know you can’t,” she said.
“I know,” exhale, long, hard, slightly broken.
Then she had to go, and just like that, this night’s saviour left him for the wolves.
But that was last night. Today the sun was shining, no more crickets. The deserted beach from 8 hours ago was now thronged with tourists. Dogs and surfers, and kids building castles. The traffic pounded behind him and he could hear a train whistle coming down the track.
Bright, crass, loud. No room for romantic notions in this harshness, surely.
He lit a smoke and pined for whisky.
Where was she now? Lounging in a bathtub, or maybe doing some shopping, maybe she was having lunch with her boyfriend, that neanderthal monster who held his happiness captive.
He had never met her boyfriend. Didn’t even know his name, or what he did. What he did know was that he made her happy, and that was the problem. If he had been the monster he imagined it would be easy to justify the kidnapping of his girlfriend. But he wasn’t. And so it goes.
And so it goes.
When they met, for lunch, or coffee, or some such excuse, they made no attempt at any contact whatsoever. To touch would lead to a contractual breach, neither of them trusted themselves enough to get that close.
Occasionally she would pass him a cigarette and their hands would brush, briefly, and hold for a second too long. Whenever she got up, her hands would rest lightly on his shoulders as she’d walk past, just enough to make his heart rate quicken and his body temperature rise.
He fantasised about taking her in his arms and kissing her, before she could object, before she could pull away. But he knew if he actually did that coffee would end up as breakfast.
The agony of being a good man.
He’d often wondered what would happen if he, for once, didn’t do the right thing. Didn’t suppress his urges for the sake of his morals.
That whisky was beginning to sound like a good idea again.
He ashed lightly on the sand, God’s ashtray, he had once called it and nearly been decked by his, then, environmentalist girlfriend. Susan, that was her name, whatever happened to her? Probably on some ship sailing around Antarctica no doubt. Well good luck to her. She was probably happy.
Bitch.
He looked out to sea. For a brief moment he thought he saw the tail of whale, then it was gone.
The view from here was truly breathtaking. He was sitting in a huge bay, surrounded on both sides by mountains. The water ahead blue-green and crystal clear.
And yet his mind turned to darkness, to night. Their conversations were always at night. When everyone had to gone to sleep, that’s where they hid their love, their passion, their lust.
The first night he had got here they had had dinner and then moved onto a local bar. When they were finally kicked out of there, (around three) they drove, on mountain tops, and through woods, searching for the perfect spot to view the sunrise, to see the night.
The next day he bought his first bottle of whisky.
He finished his third this morning, just before sunrise.
He couldn’t get drunk, no matter how hard he tried. He had put away half a bottle of Jack last night, between midnight and four am and he was still sober when he climbed into bed. And he lay there, awake, for another hour thinking of her.
Her, always her.
He remembered feeling like this when he was a teenager, over Betty, or Kate in his tenth grade class. Hundreds of sleepless nights, pining, whining in pain.
But at 32 this was ridiculous.
A part of him loved it of course, the poet in him. The raging hormonal teenager loved it too.
After years of being a grown up, a cynic about love, dealing with life responsibly, it felt wonderful to allow himself the freedom to jump head-first into this fire. It made him feel alive once more. His heart was still beating, and that was good.
Maybe that’s what this was, an exercise, to see if the parts still worked properly, and when he was fully satisfied that they did? Would it stop? Would it fade away like so many other infatuations?
Probably.
It was that reason, and that alone that stopped him from stealing her away from her safe, secure¸ existence and carrying her off to some small town in the middle of nowhere where they could live together in peace, away from the world.
She would paint, he would write. At night they would make love like it was their last night on earth and awake, surprised to find themselves alive and in each others arms.
What bliss, what heaven.
What bullshit.
Things would change, they always did.
So much for the cynic in him being dead.
No. This was all they had, all they could ever have, better to enjoy the shit out of it while they had the chance.
He flicked his smoke out into the sea, cringing at the thought of what Susan would to do him if she saw this act of heartless vandalism towards nature.
Fuck it. Humans would be gone three times over, before this world felt the slightest damage.
Fuck it. Fuck it all.
He stood up and walked down the beach to find a bar, he’d stalled long enough. The time for whisky had come.
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