Some weeks later, Gregory walked toward the same corner, this time from the opposite direction. He held his umbrella in one hand and, of course, his briefcase in the other. A light rain pattered on the black fabric stretched above his head, as though a hundred clocks were each ticking down toward some cosmic conclusion.
It was night. Gregory had been asked to stay at the office late, in order to finish some very important work before the weekend. Gregory, of course, had accepted the request, stated that it was no problem, that he would be happy to. He sent a message to his mother letting her know that he was sorry, but he would be late for dinner, that there was nothing he could do, that he hoped she understood. She had replied that it was no problem, that she and his father would simply gnaw on some appetizers while they waited.
That had been over three hours ago.
Gregory was now afraid to message his mother. He knew – hoped – that they had not waited for him all this time; he could not bring himself to ask. They had only been in town for the night, they must have taken a cab back to their home by now. Even so, he knew that this had been important to his mother – she did not see him often enough for her tastes, it had been months since his last visit – and the lack of a notification from her led him to fear that, perhaps, they were still at the restaurant, even so late into the evening. Would he need to walk into such a place, filled with a sort of tense play at genuine happiness, a thinly veiled nervousness scratching its way through wherever it might find an opening?
How ought he to act? To be sure, he would try to apologize, but knowing his parents they would wave away such apologies with nary a glance at their contents, and so the fact that they had been forced to stay immobile for so many hours all for his sake would persist, a burning thing eating away at any topic of conversation until all that was left was a thin goodbye.
Yet, the alternative – not to go – perish the thought! To leave his parents stranded at the table, until such a time as the waiter came around, himself uncomfortable, to give them the unfortunate news that the restaurant was closing; to respond to his mother's ensuing message with "I'm sorry, I had assumed the two of you had gone home already – next time" – the stuff of nightmares! The ride home afterwards, silence persisting between his mother and his father, anger only covering a sort of arid, uncertain disappointment, a feeling of having been left behind by a loved one –
Gregory clutched at his chest, feeling a physical pain at the thought of being the cause of such a thing. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though to prevent himself from seeing these scenes in his own head, a miniature tragedy made gigantic by proximity. Gregory felt, in that moment, a pain more intense than that which he feared inflicting on his parents.
Fortunately for Gregory's well-being, just then he received a message. Holding his briefcase under one arm, he retrieved his phone from his pocket. In the message, his mother explained that she was sorry, but she and his father had to return home, had already gotten into the cab and were on their way, but that they really must try to get dinner next week, this time for certain, she would not let him off the hook.
Relief in Gregory mingled with the familiar, gnawing sensation of ordinary failure, such that it was difficult for him to tell the two apart. Gregory thought about writing a response, but his position was uncomfortable – one handed, with movement limited by the need to avoid dropping his briefcase – and, thinking about it, if he told his parents that he had just finished work then they may feel compelled to attempt to meet him after all. They had, apparently, only just left the city, and his mother had made such brash decisions before. Better for everyone that he wait, and say that he had just gotten out of work at such a point in time when, in fact, he had just gotten home. This would also put him in a better state to consider the details of a future rendezvous. Surely such a thing was to everyone's benefit.
YOU ARE READING
The Man Who Watches Water
Storie breviA short story about a man whose life is a self-constructed black hole and his chance encounter with an elderly, blue-eyed wastrel. Contains: minor dissociation, minor suicidal ideation