Page 54 - Vol. VI #1

Wabi-Sabi (continue from preceding page)
Tries to focus on his girlfriend, his new girlfriend, create a new timeline looping a wrist held out to the soft, comfortable complement to his own the girl, this girl, this love.
sharp edges, on the sights and smells all around him, the menu mere inches from his face, the circle that had come to represent the nest, their nest, what was, he realizes now, what had always been, more of a shell, a protective covering meant to shield him from the worst of the world. But it’s not long before his eyes lift themselves, peering beyond the wall of his imagined enclosure, scan- ning the room, searching each corner and mirror, peering through the dim light, darting glances over the top of the wine list, here, there, every- where, still hoping against hope, still clueless
Instead...
Instead, he sits. That’s it. That’s all.
as to what his own hoped-for outcome will be, and then, all of a sudden, just like that, without precursor or expectation, movement or mean- ing, there she is—the girl, bent over a table. Then leaned across the bar, chatting with a bartender. Then striding to the kitchen, a crown of the most brilliant light encircling her head.
So happy. So happy for this girl, this woman, this love—this love that he still loves, will always love.
There is no scientific proof that time runs in a single direction, meaning that if we try hard enough, that circle can return to itself at our will. A circle becomes many circles then, twirling off into the distance.
And so, he reaches a hand to his stomach, grimac- ing to great effect as he whispers to his girlfriend that he doesn’t feel well, that he thinks they should go.
And look. There. Just there.
And, concerned though she is, she fights him. Fights him because she knows the mostly empty peanut butter jar at home won’t be enough, be- cause she knows the look that will cross his face as regret sets in the next morning over having missed an opportunity at the new and the never- before. Knows the way the pain will prick him, wanting nothing more than to smother the prick with the softness of her palm.
She’s back and he’s getting up from the table and walking straight to the bar, silent, unheeding in the face of his girlfriend’s confusion, and, as calm- ly as can be, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, he’s magic-ing another circle, right out of the air in front of the girl’s face. He smiles into her eyes as he holds the thing, this new thing, aloft, reveling in the look of elation, of pure joy that he thinks, hopes, finally knows what it is that he hopes, but not just hopes, wants, needs, must have, spreads across her face.
A circle encircling a circle.
Only.
Only he doesn’t.
He doesn’t get up, doesn’t go to the bar, doesn’t
45
But he just smiles, whispering again that he’d simply rather go home, rather be alone. With her. Alone.
He sits. He breathes. He marks the curve of her smile, the clarity of her being. The easy confi- dence of her movements, just like that girl, that love he knew in the long ago. And then, just like that, no precursor or expectation, no warning or winnowing, he’s happy.
A circle unbroken. A circle as perfect as the curve of moon peeking through the restaurant’s front window.
She asks what’s wrong. Asks if he’s sure. Asks if they should order a ginger ale, to settle his stom- ach. Bubbles of the most perfect curvature, tick- ling his nose and lips.
Together.
She smiles back at him, smiles kind of funny,