The Man Who Watches Water

Part 3

Two years passed.

Gregory walked again down this familiar street to his workplace, smiling. The skies were clear this morning – only a few clouds drifted lazily by, blissfully unaware of the shadows which they cast, with no destinations except exactly where they went next. The air was brisk, but not cold – exactly the temperature one would hope for, to wake oneself up at the start of the day.

A year prior, Gregory had been promoted at his office, after Jonathan was transferred to a different department. His co-workers had thrown a small celebration, featuring a round, lemon-flavored cake with Gregory's name scrawled across it in pink letters. That Gregory did not like lemon could not be helped; it's not as though his co-workers could have included him in the poll sent to the rest of the office, or else the surprise would have been ruined. The unspoken preference had sat in Gregory's stomach; he'd felt each mouthful of the cake collide with the words there as he forced them past his unhappy tastebuds. He had not wanted to sour such an occasion, especially as it was for his sake in the first place.

The need to meet the expectations of one's inferiors was something with which Gregory had had very little experience prior to his promotion. It was a strange sensation – that of looking down to scrutinize reactions and desired behavior, rather than up. Gregory still had superiors, of course, but his most frequent interactions were with those employees which were his charges. Being between these two forces sometimes created absolutely untenable situations for Gregory – in which he was forced to defy utterly an inferior's expectations of him in order to fit a superior's expectation of him. Though he twisted his face into the most sympathetic, pained expression of which he was capable, and apologized profusely, he knew no amount of such behavior would balance the scales.

Each time he was forced to do this, he felt something twist irreparably inside of himself, and wondered (always without consequence) if there was not perhaps something else he could have done, or could do in the future.

A few months after their inital interaction, Gregory had begun a relationship with the woman from the coffee shop. In Gregory's mind, this was an unavoidable necessity; after he had accidentally demonstrated interest, he could not in good faith fail to reciprocate (ironically) her reciprocal interest. Such a thing would have been an offense of the highest order, a wound which Gregory would not allow himself to inflict. Thus, he was compelled to play his part in this play of three acts – infatuation, routine, and slow separation. Only in this way could the girl's feelings be preserved.

At this point, the two had passed infatuation, for which Gregory was incredibly grateful. He had little confidence in how convincing his abashed smiles, desirous glances, and hearty laughs were, and the sheer number of these things required for this act was staggering. He had gone to bed each night after seeing her with scorch marks from flares of regret, flagellating himself in his head for failing to play his part perfectly. And that, only if he were lucky – some nights he had gone to bed with her instead, which granted him perhaps a brief moment of pleasure encased in a miasma of doubt, restraint, and anxiety bordering on panic. Rarely did he sleep on such nights, but neither could he rise to pace or write or even get a glass of water, for fear of waking his lover.

Now, in the routine act, things were much better. There were rarely surprises, and Gregory did not need to flood conversations with positive cues; his continued presence was reassurance enough. Of course, he still needed to pay close attention to cues and atmosphere, so as to meet his date's expectations. Hence, his personal pleasure was a distant concern, rarely realized.

At times, an image came to Gregory's mind, of himself standing next to a pond, vigorously pretending to swim on land.

His family approved of the girl. They were tactful enough not to hint at marriage, but voiced their enthusiastic support of the relationship whenever the opportunity presented itself. His mother did not call him quite so often anymore – Gregory suspected that she was less concerned about him now that there was a second feminine presence in his life, though it could also be the case that the distance between them was finally beginning to settle into her and break down the bonds she'd been so desperate to maintain.

Gregory's father only spoke to him in person. Always he had that same small, proud gleam in his eyes, happy that his son had turned out to be a success. It was for this reason Gregory knew he could not allow himself to stagnate, but must always maintain some pretense of that ambition which he commonly saw in his coworkers. He set himself to the task of progressing in his career not out of any personal sense of pride or desire for status, but because he knew that if he didn't that glimmer in his father's eyes would turn instead to some cloudy confusion, an uncertain concern, for which Gregory could not bear to be responsible.

Everything in Gregory's life was going exactly as it should be.

He felt himself draining away, through a hole in the back of his skull, losing more and more of himself as time went on.

He smiled.

If he were gone – if his body were, in actual fact, an automaton, going through the motions of his life with perfect precision and no personal thoughts on the matter – that would be ideal. No mistakes, no flubs, no panic, no uncertainty; no inadequacy, no abstract dissatisfaction, no gray. He could continue to do as everyone wanted him to, only without himself – his self – in the picture. He would be satisfied to exist as a spectre, looking on at the proceedings, with no potential – and thus, no necessity – for interference; or perhaps to not exist in any form, simply snuffed out behind his eyes, like a candle in a lantern.

Without realizing why, Gregory came out of his reverie, feeling a sudden need to attend to his surroundings. At first, he didn't recognize the balding head of white hair bobbing up and down in front of him. It was understandable – never before had he seen it in the sunlight.

Almost, Gregory had forgotten the old man entirely. At first, he had looked for him on rainy days, a strange mixture of fear and anticipation building inside of him, but to no avail. The old man had failed to appear, despite many rainy days, over the course of many months. Eventually, Gregory had given up looking – especially as he had had so many other things in his head with which to occupy himself on his brief walks to work. He had, in one of his more fervent moments, written some brief note about the encounter – something to the effect of "I AM RIVER –> I AM RAIN : ALWAYS SEEN? HIT GROUND? STOP FALLING?" – but had forgotten it shortly thereafter, until it returned unbidden in this moment.

Gregory's mind raced. At his current pace he would overtake the old man – he walked slowly, and with a slight limp, Gregory noticed. If he passed him without saying anything, and the old man recognized him, he may call out – a terrible start to the conversation, as Gregory would need to pretend not to have noticed him, and be apologetic. Worse yet, the old man may recognize him, but not say anything, simply shaking his head in disappointment, or otherwise feeling slighted or hurt.

Of course, Gregory could cross the street, but if the old man happened to look around and recognize him at that moment, it seemed almost certain he would be offended. Turning around entirely would avoid almost all possibility of the old man seeing him, but it would also prevent him from getting to work on time, which was itself unacceptable.

No, an encounter was inevitable. Gregory thought of the last words he had heard the man say – "Be seeing you." Yes, this must be correct. His heart crashed in his ears. Be as a river.