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Tuesday January 9 1996
"Hey, Julia, I'm going to Rob's house now so do you want me to give you a lift home?" Sylvia asks. She's propped up against my desk studying her nails nonchalantly. She's always like that: nonchalant, non-committing, easy-going. It makes me envious to see her so detached. Rob is her boyfriend. This week. She says she's still looking for love, but I wonder how would she know if she ever found it. She's never been committed. Never. She says men are fickle. They're fickle.
"No," I decline, "I'm gonna take the train home today."
She sighs, "But I'm going right by your house," she reasons, "And the train is so..."
She pauses, searching for the right word.
"Dirty." She finally finishes, "Not to mention dangerous."
"It's 5:00 in the afternoon. I've done it a thousand times. Really, I want to." I reply.
She narrows her eyes, "Why?" she asks.
I pause to think.
"Sometimes I stop at Memorial Park. It's beautiful in the spring. Sometimes I stop there and make some sketches," I lie, "It's really beautiful," I say again.
She smiles and shakes her head, "You're so artistic. Why are you doing this stupid secretarial job when you could be an artist?"
"Because this stupid secretarial job pays the rent," I reply, rising and gathering all my stuff together, "Besides, I'm really not that good. It's just a hobby."
Sylvia shrugs it off, "Suit yourself," she says, "Call me later and we'll go out for drinks."
"I thought you were going to Rob's," I say.
She rolls her eyes, "After that," she clarifies.
"We both have to work tomorrow," I remind her.
She rolls her eyes again, "Listen to you, you're only twenty-four but you sound like you're fifty. Call me tonight, okay, Jule? Live a little."
I nod and smile encouragingly just to get her off my case. She tips me a wink and takes off towards the back exit. I watch her go.
I take the front exit and walk across the front lawn of the building where I work. It's not a bad job. It's not bad but it definitely isn't what I expected to be doing at twenty-four. It was supposed to be temporary until I saved enough to go back to college. After a while it just seemed that working was easier than school.
I catch a streetcar downtown and then transfer to the A-train. It's a short ride, about ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe if it were longer I would make these trips less frequently. Or even stop them all together. Presently, it seems as though they're a routine thing.
I get off the train and actually do stop in Memorial Park instead of just walking straight through it like I usually do. At least this way it's not a total lie. And your place is close to here, only half a block away. I sit down on a bench and pigeons automatically flock to my feet to watch me expectantly. I barely notice.
Don't ask why I think of you so much now, after all it's been nearly five years since I saw you last. I've been reassuring myself that I'm over you, or at least that I've gone on with my life. Still, that doesn't explain why I think of you so much now or why I make these ridiculous trips to your house.
I look down your street and I can see a corner of your building, poking out between the drug store and the bakery. I can't help it, I stare at that corner, mesmerized.
I rise and start off towards it. Everything is so familiar and I'm transported back to the first time I came here. All the shops are the same, all the people, all the smells and sights. I've come to the door of your building. I'm passed it.
I stop outside the bakery window and study the cakes and pies on display.
It's been years since you've been there. I haven't seen you since the day you left me. You never told me you were moving let alone gave me your new address. I suppose you had no reason to. Still, it hurt to find out from the clerk at the drug store that you had moved. She told me like I should have known. I should have known. I wish I'd known.
She had no idea where you'd gone. It's almost like you've disappeared somewhere. No one talks about you, no one asks about you. You could have evaporated into thin air. But probably nothing as fantastic as that. You've probably just found a better place than here.
I guess I just miss you, that's all. It can't be love because how can you love someone you haven't seen in five years? Besides, love doesn't come back so suddenly and for no reason. Perhaps I'm just curious about what you're up to now, how you look and what you do. Have you gained weight? Have you lost any hair? Are you seeing someone now? How do you make a living? Do you think of me? Or maybe I'm just angry with you. For leaving me, for abandoning what I thought was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Maybe I'm angry, because you never even seemed to think twice about it.
Actually, no. I don't think it's that at all. I think I really am just missing you. Pity me.
I turn to walk by your door again. Could you be dead, I wonder? It's quite possible, what with the way you used to live. Everything was a party. Nothing was ever worthwhile unless there was an element of danger or risk involved. What was it you liked to do when you were drunk? Dodge the trains at Royal Station. How flagrant. How utterly flagrant. But you were always like that; I guess that was your charm. Everyone would watch you, me included. How flagrant.
How sick of me to make these trips so routinely. How sick to make these trips at all. I mean, to lie about it and then come here, it's insane. I must be losing my mind. The people in this neighborhood must know and whisper, "There she is again, pretending to look in the bakery. How long ago did they break up? And she's still not over it?" And they must shake their heads and sigh.
Sylvia knows all about you, how I felt, how you left me. She knows it hurt me even if she can't appreciate what it is to be hurt. Still, I cannot confess to her that I make these trips. It's embarrassing. And pathetic. I think soon I'll stop just from pure shame. I hope this is the case, because it has gotten out of hand. It's been too many years. But I guess all the years have told me is that I can't move on.
You must have found some better place. When will I? Why is this happening now? And when will it end? What if you come back?
What will happen if on one of these trips I look up at your window and you're there, almost falling out the window, pushing those silly potted plants off the ledge. What if you grin at me and wave at me and lean out the window to yell, "Spread a little sunshine, Julia!" What then?
I must be just missing you. Yeah, that's all. Pity me.
Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson
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