Love Short Story – Highway 51
Photo credit: imelenchon from morguefile.com
It isn’t always that I feel restless. I strive to keep myself occupied. Doing almost anything. Even sitting alone, quietly, in the corner of my room is something. At least I sit in peace. Tonight I sit listening to a song on loop, as is ritual. I do that till the point I can’t hear it again for a long time. And then when I do, it always brings a smile to my face. Because there will be a story. There is always a story.
Yet tonight, a thousand thoughts race through my mind, till they become just blurs of the headlights on a highway in the dead of night. Speed. The place and time you cannot stop, even if you tried to. I stare at the books I’m meant to read and realise I can’t focus. The glass of vintage merlot lies untouched on the table next to me. The only light is the white glare from the computer, reminding me that I am still connected to the outside world. A world I don’t really understand. Or is it the other way round? I never really know. It’s not existential angst that’s making me want to step out, get in a car and drive in any direction I see. Just hurtle at break-neck speed down unfamiliar roads. And I’m not a reckless person. And I don’t have a car.
Which is just as well.
All my life, I have been expected to act in a certain way. Be polite. Be smart. Be demure. Always do the right thing, according to other people of course. I never questioned it. I was taught not to. I never did have pretty things. Never did ride that bike. Never did run away from home. Never did incur the wrath of the folks for doing something incredibly stupid. No, I was taught better. I wasn’t unhappy. But then again that wasn’t even a choice. Perhaps that’s why I became the many layered individual, who had forgotten what was at the core.
Perhaps that’s the reason I took to books. The smell of old yellowed pages or new glue has always sent shivers down my spine. Left alone amidst a million books would turn me into a giddy schoolgirl. I had been told by the lovers of Christmas past, that I looked happiest when I was around books. And I thought that was just their way of trying their luck to get into my pants. Books-prose and poetry are the only things I truly understand. The only escape from this existence that stifles me on a regular basis. I used to be the life of every party, the one laughing the most, dancing the most, flirting the most.
Yet when I looked across the room, I always saw myself, leaning against the wall, observing the social rituals of life, knowing that I don’t really belong. Not one person did I understand nor did they understand me. My mind wandered, meandering through the crowd, pegging them into characters in my book-the book that my life is. Written in the third person narrative with sudden deviations when the protagonist gets fed up of having things decided for her and then steers the story in another direction, before leaving it in fourth gear. This book gets shelved eventually in the Great Library that smells of old oak trees and low yellow light.
It was in a similar bookstore, that I had accidentally stumbled upon, where I met you. It was late December, the only time the sun is welcome. It was one of those days when I realised staying in office would probably make me lose the semblance of sanity I had left. So I had started walking, randomly turning corners, to the point that I had no idea where I was. Then I spotted it. The place that would soon become my place of worship. If there was ever a God, I think I found Him in there.
I was sitting on the floor lost in the formidable towers of old leather bound books. The afternoon sun was streaming through the small window behind me. The golden rays danced across the page I was staring at…hand painted illustration of the Knights of the Round Table. I ran my fingers across the page, feeling the uneven texture of the paint. I would never be able to afford that edition even if I put three months’ worth of salary on it. The goosebumps along my arms made me smile to myself. I pushed my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear and that’s when I noticed a pair of blue All-Stars in front of me. I looked up and saw you looking down at me with such a bemused expression.
I still remember staring back at you with raised eyebrows, suspicious through the years of conditioning. The expression I wore usually sent most men scampering downhill yet you had this hint of a crooked smile on the left corner of your lips. Which perhaps annoyed me more. Yet my mother had instilled in me, that being rude should not be second nature to me (which was typically hypocritical of her since she also said all men had intentions of the suspicious nature!) So I lowered my eyebrows, managed a glimmer of a smile and said, ‘Yes?’
It took me about 45 seconds to size up my opponent. About 5’11’’, a headful of wavy black hair, extremely torn and faded pair of denims, coupled with the air of one who knows he might be a little better than you but won’t go out of his way to rub it in (unless provoked of course) and black-rimmed glasses that proudly showed off the melting brown eyes behind them. They say eyes are the window to your soul yet I got nothing more than suppressed laughter. And then you opened your mouth and I prayed to the gods you wouldn’t or if it was absolutely necessary, something intelligent would come out of it. And you managed to say ‘Arthur or Lancelot?’ My insides groaned. Of course you would say that…one doesn’t expect much more from faded denims and blue Converse. I wore my best ‘please-go-away’ face and said that I preferred neither. You smiled and said, ‘Yeah me neither. Personally I prefer Gawain.’ And I realised you had been sizing me up all along.
One wonders how and why we meet the people we do. Some who we know are just a waste of oxygen, some who grow to mean so much to us that it hurts. And then there are those who we know nothing about, who come in like a whirlwind, toss you about and leave you with your mouth open. This category is a very tricky one because you can never peg them in the little boxes in your head. You keep playing Peg Solitaire with them hoping to clear the board but you never do. But you never do realise that it’s not about the win or loss, but simply about the process.
I watched as you turned and walked away. I sat looking at your retreating back for 5 minutes, then went back to running my fingers over the exquisite illustrations. Only this time, I could not think about the knights anymore. I shut the book, got up and left, trying desperately to shake of the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Since the discovery of the bookstore, my evenings started being a little more meaningful. Every day I would find my feet walking me to the yellowed pages and musty smell. Before long, I considered it home. The owner, a 64 year-old Irish gentleman with a healthy appetite for conversation, books and single malt, soon became the father I had never known. He had lost his wife to cancer 10 years ago and had since lived a life devoted to his precious books. Never having had kids, he chose to become fiercely protective and parental towards me. We spent many evening sitting outside the shop, under the sign that hung above the store, swapping stories and laughing about how one day we would quit drinking the cheap red wines we did. As the days rolled into months, the defining lines of relationships slowly blurred. Soon, I was the last one to leave every night, locking up and whispering goodbyes to the only things that made sense to me. Often when the nights got too much for me, curled up in my blue sheets, I would go over and sleep on the carpet amidst the lovers, the psychos and the mythical. And since the bookstore became home to me, I saw you more regularly.
We never did exchange names or numbers, just the nods of our heads and the smiles that were genuine. And it did not seem strange at all. I still remember arguing with you over those untouched cups of Earl Grey, about Sydney Carton being the better thought-out literary character than those who were always put on pedestals. Actually we argued about whether the Classics were dying or not. We almost never did agree on anything. We had nearly nothing in common except that we were two lonely people. And even then we did not ever talk about our personal lives. We understood the underlying pain and torment and the baggage we both carried. From time to time, the past would come back to haunt us and without ever saying anything, we knew. It amazed me sometimes that I knew so little about you, yet you were such an integral part of my life. And I boldly chose to assume so was I, to yours.
Every December, during the holidays, we would exchange gifts. From vintage books to the lastest cheap and vulgar literature, from home-cooked meals to a song sung blue, from mittens to kittens, we had done it all. Every year, for twelve years. And neither of us was too attached to the festivities. And we still did not know each other’s names. The two words that supposedly identify us…the two words without which we probably would not exist as far as all the paperwork in the world is concerned. And it did not matter. We just kept saving each other. We held hands and climbed out of pits, over and over again. One such Christmas eve, while I was locking up for the night, you sat following me with your gaze.
As I turned off the lights, I could tell something was on your mind. The radio was playing the oldies, the look in your eyes made me nervous. You walked over to me, took my hand and twirled me around. I could not stop looking at you. You put your hands around my waist and led. We danced for what seemed like hours, by the glow of the fairy lights on the Christmas Tree. You pushed back the hair from my face and kissed my forehead. I hate being kissed on the forehead. It makes me feel supremely vulnerable. It’s inexplicable but kissing my forehead always messed with my head. I actively avoid chances where anyone would kiss my forehead. It’s the highest form of endearment, affection and love. I have been kissed on my forehead four times-first by my dad, then at 17 by the boy I first loved, then at 23 by the man who broke my soul and now, by you. It disconcerted me. I could feel the tears welling up and the hot flush rising up my neck. You pulled back and watched the tears roll down my cheeks. You just looked and for the first time in years I could not read your eyes. You wrapped me in your arms and kissed me…
We made love that night under the Christmas tree. For me it was the first time. I had had sex before and had a rather colourful sexual life but for the first time, I was making love. Somewhere I finally understood the difference. I did not want to leave and run, something I was so used to doing. I just wanted to hold on and sleep. You rolled over and said, “I love you. Not today. But someday you will understand.” With that you kissed me and we slept.
We never slept together again. Even though we perhaps wanted to, but just never did. We kissed sometimes but always left it at that. We continued to argue and laugh while my Irish surrogate father raised his eyebrow at us making us feel 16 again. And I felt at peace. I wasn’t drowning anymore. Then one day I noticed you were gone. It had been weeks and you had not come by the bookstore. I started worrying. But that was just a small part of the discomfort I felt. Helplessness, was why I could not breathe…because I did not know how to look for you. Those two seemingly unimportant words that we hid from each other, now seemed to point and laugh at me. Weeks turned to months and I knew you were never coming back. And so life went on.
Eventually I pieced myself together and started to live like I used to…cold, cynical and in denial. I often wondered why. I wrote a hundred letters asking how you were but I did nothing with them because I did not know what to do with them. I wanted to write and tell you that the bookstore was now mine, my Irish dad had died leaving it to me. But where would I send the letters? I wrote as a release and then tore them up. And then finally it stopped hurting actively. I never forgot but the pain was dull now. I quit my job and threw myself into the bookstore that had breathed life into me.
It’s been 4 years since you disappeared. I think about you sometimes. I smile. I realise that I always loved you but never did say it. Never got the chance to. Never really felt I needed to. It’s December again. And an unusual restlessness has taken over me. I sit staring at the window in front of me. December is always the hardest. I still don’t care much for the festivities. December now just brings back memories. Of laughter and hot chocolate and trees and dancing and fairy lights.
The sound of the telly jolts me out of my reverie. I look at the television set and see your face. I feel a numbness settle upon me. I read the ticker tape under the picture of your face. At 9pm this evening, a car exploded in a freak accident outside the First Draft Publications’ office, killing 10 including the owner and injuring 13. The owner of the car has been identified as XX, an author with the publication house, said to launch his first novel ‘Lives on Highway 51’ this Friday…”
I stared till the television screen started to blur. I suddenly remembered my favourite quote…
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.
And I cry.
Not because you are dead…but because after 16 years, I finally know your name…
__END__
