A short story about Love

Today I Saw…

“What I’m saying is that we keep focusing on this idea of romantic existentialism where the real meaning of our existence is expressed through romantic connections and I think that’s just so unproductive, I mean…”

The drone of conversation throughout the train usually keeps to itself, today however the lilting intonations of Mr. Existentialism wafted throughout the carriage like a noisy fart, touching everybody. Granted most of these people where buried deep within their own aural confines through either earphones or headphones so perhaps only experienced my ambient discomfort on an unconscious level. For that I was envious.

“…think about it, we chain ourselves to another human being, essentially becoming subservient chattel to a patriarchal sociological contract drawn up in a time so ancient, they didn’t even have flushable toilets let alone the mental capacity to comprehend a time where women would someday have the ability to take a shit without asking permission from their masters, I mean, “husbands”. Don’t give me this crap about love either, I mean trust me I’ve been in love before…”

I couldn’t imagine someone actually having the patience to listen to this and at the same time have the heart to fall in love with this human gramophone. The patience required for such a feat would surely qualify that person for a Nobel Peace Prize. I lifted up my head from my reading to survey the train as one does every so often: an unconscious reconnaître that seems to have no purpose other than to survey the other humans that have taken up residence in a common space. The journey to work always seemed to consist of the most cliched of passengers; don’t worry I wont list them here, it’s too tiring to even think on, never mind write.

“…and Valentine’s Day, I mean What. A. Scam! Trust me, ask any woman, they’d rather spend that $100 you wasted on roses on having fun: beer, hot food and bowling, I mean this isn’t complex! Seriously how is a dozen red roses still a thing? People are obsessed with keeping these pointless cliches alive. As a society we worship mediocrity and pray at the alter of banality. What happened to originality? What happened to having a personal identity?”

“I thought you were talking about love”

“I am, this is all related, trust me. O.K. love, I mean. What more do I have to say?”

A lot by the sounds of it. Some of what he said I actually agree with, even if he is still an annoying blowhard. Valentine’s Day has it’s uses but really, we can’t have Valentine’s Day, like, ALL THE TIME? Really? We need a manufactured consensus on when to celebrate the ones we’ve fallen for? We’re better than that, surely. Speaking of, I noticed someone three rows down, rugged up in a thick pea coat, dark hair falling in curled rivulets around her slender shoulders, unadorned except for a collection of invisible hair pins. The hair pins you find in between the pillows on the couch, or in the bathroom drawer, just popping up everywhere. She was reading a Judy Picoult novel, something with a colourful, wistful cover, the author’s name emblazoned across the front to leave little doubt who was responsible for this literary work. I’ve never read one of her novels but hey, she’s successful, and sometimes, that’s all that matters.

“Listen…”

Like we have any choice.

“…the idea of ‘love’ has its uses. Without love, we wouldn’t understand, really, how we feel about people. I’m talking more about people we have a platonic affection for, like family, for example. That type of love is the only thing on this Earth we can understand and depend on. everything else is just wispy noise, here today, gone tomorrow. There’s a reason why most, I repeat, most marriages are a sham: we just get sick of other people. If we don’t have this personal, genetic connection to someone, how can we be expected to maintain such a ‘loving’ relationship over many years? It’s unnatural! Give me work, money and good friends any day. Love? Who needs it?”

The book I’m reading is working it’s way, execrably, to it’s ignominious conclusion. For some reason I always have a tendency to slow down as the end approaches, the same goes for food. There’s something metaphorical there, something about longing and holding on to things that needs to be let go, but anyway…

She seemed to be looking up every now and then, the usual reconnaître I mentioned before, but there was something very specific about it. To be honest, my reconnaître seemed to be gravitating toward her, and her to me. It’s never been something that I had essentially sought out, after all, human connection of any kind is daunting at the best of times. The busy train carriage is a great place to survey what’s on offer but it’s more about window shopping than anything else. Something to see and wonder about before turning around and going about our personal business, the connection broken like a thin thread of cotton, disregarded and casually dismissed. However during such a tacit connection, we really don’t want it to end.

A cynic would mention the puerile, childish need of us adults to seek validation from others. A romantic would mention the wonderful, unquantifiable warmth that can develop just from a glance, a momentary burst of adrenaline because your eyes met for just a second, half a second. A connection that could last forever.

Isn’t this life? Don’t these all-too-brief connections provide the impetus for us to get up every morning and live? We put up with so much hardship as part of the human condition, it’s reasonable to expect us to also voluntarily seek to feel a flutter of butterflies in our eager stomachs.

Her eyes seemed to be devoid of colour, or should I say, colour in the colourful sense. Just darkness, implacable, unknowable. Depths of blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I could write at least a chapter of her book talking like that but I gotta admit that I was captivated. Our furtive glances occasionally synchronising, our stomachs, no doubt, also falling out at the same time. It was impossible for me to focus too closely on my book; I’m sure for her it was the same.

What is it about our pride that chains us to the seat, preferring the comfortable route to the option that leaves us wide open to a sharp thrust to the guts, eviscerated from top to toe, embarrassed and diminished, less than human, small, Lilliputian? But then we see ourselves from outside of our bodies, getting up, walking over, exchanging hesitant greetings, small talk.

What are you reading?

Well, one day I might read one of her books, which one should I start with? 

It’s been so chilly lately, hope I don’t catch anything, it’s so risky on the train most days…

Really? Did it hurt? I heard those flu shots are really effective, I’ve never had one myself, which is probably why I’m sick, like, every single winter, I mean it’s a championship run…haha…

Hmmm that sounds complicated, how long have you been doing that for? I went to Monash. Really? Which campus? Nah, I finished waaaaay before you.

Eyes. Smile. Hair. Smile. Straight teeth. Smile. Manicured hands. Smile. Cheeks, chin, face. Smile. Perfume, heady, floral, pleasant. Smile. Smart, driven, career. Smile.

Coffee. Late. Don’t care. Conversation. Warm. Expectation. Emotion. Desire. Phone number.

See you around. Later. Later. Later. Later.

Oh, definitely.

Smile.