David Anderson's Blog - Posts Tagged "love"
The Man Who Owned the World
What could possibly be more joyful and heart-warming than travelling with someone we love to an exotic destination? I’ll see you at the beach.
He folded the note, put it down and looked out of the window. Not a soul stirred in the empty world he'd inherited. Humanity’s ruination lay before him, stark and obvious.
Were those her own words or someone else’s? He’d no way to find out unless he scoured every book in every library on the off chance he’d eventually stumble upon them. He could do that: he had time enough at last. But what would be the point? They were poignant and meaningful regardless, secret words that filled him with useless regret.
Of all the books he could have picked up, why the one hiding her secret note? What had made him choose it from the many at his disposal? This volume had sat there untouched for years, until today.
When had she written these words, constructed this hidden message to him? He'd been doing okay until he discovered it – or as okay as one could be, bearing in mind the circumstances – dealing with the loneliness as best he could, the crushing melancholy.
A dire shadow had fallen over him upon finding this message and now he realised he missed her. Craved one of their infamous arguments, even. He found it amazing how you could learn to dislike someone so intensely in life yet miss them so desperately when they were gone.
Absence does funny things to memories, transforms irritation into fondness. With passing time the unsatisfactory moments acquire a lustre previously lacking, unremarkable moments begin to carry more importance, more heft and meaning. Sentimentality blossoms like a cancer that cannot be quelled. The bad memories, the harsh times, the tribulations, they dim until they are forgotten.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if he hadn’t pushed her away she wouldn’t have been there when it all happened. She could be here, with him, alive. He’d have her company, her warmth at night. He wouldn’t feel so alone. This dead world was his dominion now, but it wasn’t enough. A tiny spark is all that is needed to set away the insatiable blaze that is heartsickness. Her note had kindled an unstoppable, destructive force.
He had always marvelled over the incredible power of the human spirit. To know one’s time is short, but to have the resilience to carry on in spite of this, with the spectre of death continually lingering over one’s shoulder. For one’s existence to be so fleeting, so unimaginably fragile but to battle on anyway, against insurmountable odds. Her words had obliterated his resilience, broken his indomitable spirit in an instant.
He unfolded the note again, read it for the hundredth time, then looked back at the table, towards the pill bottle standing upon it. He went to the small brown container, picked it up, shook it and rattled the pills inside. He unscrewed the cap, tipped some onto his palm. He mulled over them briefly, but his delay was short, his mind already made up. He tossed the tablets into his mouth.
Yes, he thought, I'll see you at the beach.
He folded the note, put it down and looked out of the window. Not a soul stirred in the empty world he'd inherited. Humanity’s ruination lay before him, stark and obvious.
Were those her own words or someone else’s? He’d no way to find out unless he scoured every book in every library on the off chance he’d eventually stumble upon them. He could do that: he had time enough at last. But what would be the point? They were poignant and meaningful regardless, secret words that filled him with useless regret.
Of all the books he could have picked up, why the one hiding her secret note? What had made him choose it from the many at his disposal? This volume had sat there untouched for years, until today.
When had she written these words, constructed this hidden message to him? He'd been doing okay until he discovered it – or as okay as one could be, bearing in mind the circumstances – dealing with the loneliness as best he could, the crushing melancholy.
A dire shadow had fallen over him upon finding this message and now he realised he missed her. Craved one of their infamous arguments, even. He found it amazing how you could learn to dislike someone so intensely in life yet miss them so desperately when they were gone.
Absence does funny things to memories, transforms irritation into fondness. With passing time the unsatisfactory moments acquire a lustre previously lacking, unremarkable moments begin to carry more importance, more heft and meaning. Sentimentality blossoms like a cancer that cannot be quelled. The bad memories, the harsh times, the tribulations, they dim until they are forgotten.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if he hadn’t pushed her away she wouldn’t have been there when it all happened. She could be here, with him, alive. He’d have her company, her warmth at night. He wouldn’t feel so alone. This dead world was his dominion now, but it wasn’t enough. A tiny spark is all that is needed to set away the insatiable blaze that is heartsickness. Her note had kindled an unstoppable, destructive force.
He had always marvelled over the incredible power of the human spirit. To know one’s time is short, but to have the resilience to carry on in spite of this, with the spectre of death continually lingering over one’s shoulder. For one’s existence to be so fleeting, so unimaginably fragile but to battle on anyway, against insurmountable odds. Her words had obliterated his resilience, broken his indomitable spirit in an instant.
He unfolded the note again, read it for the hundredth time, then looked back at the table, towards the pill bottle standing upon it. He went to the small brown container, picked it up, shook it and rattled the pills inside. He unscrewed the cap, tipped some onto his palm. He mulled over them briefly, but his delay was short, his mind already made up. He tossed the tablets into his mouth.
Yes, he thought, I'll see you at the beach.
Burned Out Flames
His eyes settle on her across the busy room. Jesus Christ, is it really her? It must be, the resemblance is too uncanny. His eyes follow her and she must sense it as she turns and looks directly at him. A flicker of recognition then a beaming smile. Fifteen years and she's barely changed. Still as striking as she was before. She moves through the crowd and comes to him.
'Is it really you?' she asks.
'It is,' he responds. 'Is it really you?'
She giggles. He remembers the sound well. It thrills him, transports him back through time.
'You come here often?' he jokes and she laughs again.
She places a hand on his arm and a shudder runs through his body. He is filled with a familiar sense of longing. 'Fancy seeing you here,' she says.
'Can I get you something to drink?' She looks back at her friends, considers, then turns back to him and nods coyly. 'What you having?'
He buys her the cocktail she asks for, still the same as she drank way back when. Some things never change. They talk about inconsequential things: work, homeownership, friendship groups, holidays. Her friends come over and tell her they are leaving. She waves them away, tells them she's staying, that she'll catch them up.
Is he in with a shot here? He's getting good vibes. This is old territory – he knows the lay of the land, or did, anyway – he should be able to read the signs. But time has passed, have there been monumental shifts in her since then? Does he even want to tread old ground? Look how it ended last time – he can recall the hurt like it was yesterday. The wounds may have healed but what if the skin is thin, fragile, ready to tear open again at the first opportunity?
The chatter begins to rewind the years, leaving the vicinity of inconsequential, moving into the meaningful. As the drinks flow they move onto the taboo subject of their few months together as a couple. They laugh and joke about them but, thinking back, he honestly can't remember if they were the happiest of his life or the most painful. Time, the great despoiler, does that to your memories.
The seconds tick by, driving the more dominant hands of the clock ever onwards. Is she interested or isn't she? Lingering touches, lasting eye contact, laughing at his dire jokes. Then again, she could just be sparing some time for an old flame. Shouldn't she be playing with her hair if she was really keen?
His mind hones in on something. We're broken, aren't we? Words spoken before they parted ways and she wandered off with someone else. Well, does tonight mean they are fixed?
The bar begins to empty as people move on to clubs or head for home. He doesn't have forever to pose the question that is nagging at him. Pointless fighting the inevitable though, he knows himself too well. Lock up the doubts and get on with it. Eventually he builds up the courage to ask. 'Do you want to come back to my place?'
She seems to mull it over for a second before responding. 'Yeah, okay,' she says. 'Sure.'
***
There is silence in the taxi as it accelerates towards their destination. The outside beyond the windscreen is suddenly hostile and perturbing, the taxi a protective cavern in the darkness. The lights beyond the windows zip by like the intervening years, trailing endless lines through the night.
The lack of conversation disturbs him. Is she having second thoughts? Are they making a terrible mistake here? Her hand falls to his knee and stays there and all doubts are dispelled. His body is suddenly taut with pleasantly unbearable tension, an electricity has triggered every nerve. Her resting hand sends tremors through him like the presence of some supernatural entity.
They pull up at his house and he pays the driver, handing over a big tip, a reminder of his generosity and all-round good guy status. She leads the way up his drive and waits patiently at the door as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He unlocks it and lets her in.
Once inside he struggles for something to say. How to approach a situation that falls just beyond the normal?
'Fancy a coffee?' Even as the words leave his mouth he feels stupid. What an imbecilic thing to say.
She raises a wry eyebrow. 'It's a little late for caffeine, isn't it?'
She comes over to him, takes his hand, leads him upstairs. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind is a whirring confusion of anticipation, fear, and random fragments of their ancient history. He is like a teenager all over again.
She asks which room is his and he points the way. She pushes open the door, falls onto the bed and pulls him down with her. She presses her lips against his and his synapses fire, reviving memories that have long lay dormant, restoring their colour, sharpening their dulled edges, restoring their intensity, making them vivid. The feel and taste of her are familiar. He can resist no longer. His hands begin to wander. So do hers.
***
He wakes to bright morning sunshine and a momentary shock as he notices the figure lying next to him. Then it all comes rushing back. The ecstasy of last night is quickly overwhelmed by a melancholy sense of regret. What the fuck was I thinking, he silently asks himself.
He watches her sleep for a while, battling conflicting emotions. Do you know how much you meant to me, he wonders. Do you care at all that you fucked everything up? After some time she stirs, turns slowly to face him. There's a quick something in her eyes that tells him she feels the same misgivings as he does. 'Morning,' she whispers.
'Morning,' he replies.
She sits up, throws her legs over the side of the bed. Her body is the same as ever, the curves as memorable as any landscape he has ever seen. She is fending off the ravages of time far better than he. She stands and his eyes are drawn by her every movement. She picks up her underwear and jeans, starts to pull them on. Mesmerising.
He notices the wedding ring on her finger as she continues to dress, muses over it briefly. Perhaps the husband is estranged. Perhaps dead. Or maybe things haven't changed one iota in all the years that have passed.
'Won't you stay a while?' he asks, hoping she won't.
'I should get going,' she says without hesitation. 'Busy day ahead, you know?'
He throws on last night's clothing as she hurriedly tries to fix her hair. When she's ready he walks her downstairs, opens the front door for her. She turns to him, rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, raises herself up on tiptoes, and plants kisses on both his cheeks. Demure now.
'I had a lovely time,' she tells him. A faint smile and then she turns to leave. She doesn't look back as she walks away. There she goes, he thinks, strutting out of my life again. How fleeting every encounter between them, how utterly futile.
He shuts the door, locks it, then trudges into the living room and drops onto the couch. He picks up the remote and flicks on the TV.
'Is it really you?' she asks.
'It is,' he responds. 'Is it really you?'
She giggles. He remembers the sound well. It thrills him, transports him back through time.
'You come here often?' he jokes and she laughs again.
She places a hand on his arm and a shudder runs through his body. He is filled with a familiar sense of longing. 'Fancy seeing you here,' she says.
'Can I get you something to drink?' She looks back at her friends, considers, then turns back to him and nods coyly. 'What you having?'
He buys her the cocktail she asks for, still the same as she drank way back when. Some things never change. They talk about inconsequential things: work, homeownership, friendship groups, holidays. Her friends come over and tell her they are leaving. She waves them away, tells them she's staying, that she'll catch them up.
Is he in with a shot here? He's getting good vibes. This is old territory – he knows the lay of the land, or did, anyway – he should be able to read the signs. But time has passed, have there been monumental shifts in her since then? Does he even want to tread old ground? Look how it ended last time – he can recall the hurt like it was yesterday. The wounds may have healed but what if the skin is thin, fragile, ready to tear open again at the first opportunity?
The chatter begins to rewind the years, leaving the vicinity of inconsequential, moving into the meaningful. As the drinks flow they move onto the taboo subject of their few months together as a couple. They laugh and joke about them but, thinking back, he honestly can't remember if they were the happiest of his life or the most painful. Time, the great despoiler, does that to your memories.
The seconds tick by, driving the more dominant hands of the clock ever onwards. Is she interested or isn't she? Lingering touches, lasting eye contact, laughing at his dire jokes. Then again, she could just be sparing some time for an old flame. Shouldn't she be playing with her hair if she was really keen?
His mind hones in on something. We're broken, aren't we? Words spoken before they parted ways and she wandered off with someone else. Well, does tonight mean they are fixed?
The bar begins to empty as people move on to clubs or head for home. He doesn't have forever to pose the question that is nagging at him. Pointless fighting the inevitable though, he knows himself too well. Lock up the doubts and get on with it. Eventually he builds up the courage to ask. 'Do you want to come back to my place?'
She seems to mull it over for a second before responding. 'Yeah, okay,' she says. 'Sure.'
***
There is silence in the taxi as it accelerates towards their destination. The outside beyond the windscreen is suddenly hostile and perturbing, the taxi a protective cavern in the darkness. The lights beyond the windows zip by like the intervening years, trailing endless lines through the night.
The lack of conversation disturbs him. Is she having second thoughts? Are they making a terrible mistake here? Her hand falls to his knee and stays there and all doubts are dispelled. His body is suddenly taut with pleasantly unbearable tension, an electricity has triggered every nerve. Her resting hand sends tremors through him like the presence of some supernatural entity.
They pull up at his house and he pays the driver, handing over a big tip, a reminder of his generosity and all-round good guy status. She leads the way up his drive and waits patiently at the door as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. He unlocks it and lets her in.
Once inside he struggles for something to say. How to approach a situation that falls just beyond the normal?
'Fancy a coffee?' Even as the words leave his mouth he feels stupid. What an imbecilic thing to say.
She raises a wry eyebrow. 'It's a little late for caffeine, isn't it?'
She comes over to him, takes his hand, leads him upstairs. His heart hammers in his chest, his mind is a whirring confusion of anticipation, fear, and random fragments of their ancient history. He is like a teenager all over again.
She asks which room is his and he points the way. She pushes open the door, falls onto the bed and pulls him down with her. She presses her lips against his and his synapses fire, reviving memories that have long lay dormant, restoring their colour, sharpening their dulled edges, restoring their intensity, making them vivid. The feel and taste of her are familiar. He can resist no longer. His hands begin to wander. So do hers.
***
He wakes to bright morning sunshine and a momentary shock as he notices the figure lying next to him. Then it all comes rushing back. The ecstasy of last night is quickly overwhelmed by a melancholy sense of regret. What the fuck was I thinking, he silently asks himself.
He watches her sleep for a while, battling conflicting emotions. Do you know how much you meant to me, he wonders. Do you care at all that you fucked everything up? After some time she stirs, turns slowly to face him. There's a quick something in her eyes that tells him she feels the same misgivings as he does. 'Morning,' she whispers.
'Morning,' he replies.
She sits up, throws her legs over the side of the bed. Her body is the same as ever, the curves as memorable as any landscape he has ever seen. She is fending off the ravages of time far better than he. She stands and his eyes are drawn by her every movement. She picks up her underwear and jeans, starts to pull them on. Mesmerising.
He notices the wedding ring on her finger as she continues to dress, muses over it briefly. Perhaps the husband is estranged. Perhaps dead. Or maybe things haven't changed one iota in all the years that have passed.
'Won't you stay a while?' he asks, hoping she won't.
'I should get going,' she says without hesitation. 'Busy day ahead, you know?'
He throws on last night's clothing as she hurriedly tries to fix her hair. When she's ready he walks her downstairs, opens the front door for her. She turns to him, rests her hands lightly on his shoulders, raises herself up on tiptoes, and plants kisses on both his cheeks. Demure now.
'I had a lovely time,' she tells him. A faint smile and then she turns to leave. She doesn't look back as she walks away. There she goes, he thinks, strutting out of my life again. How fleeting every encounter between them, how utterly futile.
He shuts the door, locks it, then trudges into the living room and drops onto the couch. He picks up the remote and flicks on the TV.
