Abe's Narratives

This morning is no different than the last. I got up at dawn, put on an outfit halfway between presentable and embarrassing, tightly secured to my feet the lightest sneakers in my collection, put on noise-canceling headphones–which serve as great earmuffs in the cold of winter–called upon Yanni, the role of scorer, and set out on my pursuit of an endorphin high. It was a foggy morning, but as it always does, it looked good as it made its way around the Victorian-style homes. The roads and walkways were nearly empty, and all you could hear was the sound of the occasional jet engine or bird humming its song. The moist air served as a suitable conduit for delivering messages parceled into tiny aromatic molecules capable of inducing memories of the long-gone past. After breathlessly clearing five miles, I bathed and lathered under nearly boiling water. Then had oatmeal cooked in milk and seasoned with a quarter teaspoon of salt. A rather dull morning routine yet my favorite part of any 24-hour interval. 

Today is no ordinary day, however: I have scheduled to meet with a colleague who has been generous with the quick glances–the types that betray their own attempt at covertness–while in the office. It would be a lie to make the assertion that I have not, myself, taken pleasure in observing him in his pensive state when he begins to clench his mandible, causing his temples to pulsate–an ectopic heartbeat. Or when something goes awry, bringing him about to curse under his breath and me to have the kind of impulses that, if acted upon, would not only endanger my current assignment but also append my name in the court logs with an asterisk denoting a restraining order. I could hover for millennia if it weren’t for this overdue report.

He’s invited me to a popular and hard to get into eatery in the city–the kind of establishment usually patronized by sprucely dressed folks endowed with great intellect, coupled with the will to ablate it one neurocyte at a time with unwarranted amounts of alcohol. 

I begin to prepare for the day, and amongst the depths of my wardrobe, I catch a glimpse of a garment treasured years ago but never sported. It’s a midnight blue dress but appears black while entangled in a hollowness devoid of light. I gently pull it out from its wooden hanger, careful not to abrade its delicate fabrics against the other articles, and bring it closer to me. There’s the blue, I say—and I’m reminded of the not so empty space in which the earth and moon share a dance, the transmissible fluid in which we are submerged in and are in need of to afford each breath, and the unearthed marine life found in the abyss of the oceans. It’s the one to don, I say to myself. I lightly dab some perfume–a subtle scent I hope he earns the privilege to explore–on my neck and chest area. I scrutinize my reflection once more and leave out the door.

I arrive, and the place is certainly living up to all the chatter. An ambiance consisting of subtle bursts of laughter and conversation, the sound of forks and knives tapping on ceramic, the aromas of scorching spices and lingering musk, and my favorite part, the music–it’s low but discernible, and it reminds me of dreaming. Is this a dream? The floor is commodious and furnished with old wooden tabletops and creased dark-stained leather settees and chesterfields. The lightning is minimal, in fact hardly there–only a few candles at each table–but achieves the desired effect: thought provocation. 

I walk behind a hostess who is cordial and clearly steadfast in her undertaking of providing superb hospitality for the purpose, of course, of receiving compensation in the form of an overly generous tip from two possibly drunken folks. Maybe I’m being excessively cynical, I think. She brings me to the table where he’s been patiently waiting for my arrival, and there he is. He rises to kiss my hand and clear the way for me to sit. What a gentleman, I think. I sit, and he smiles, forming the furrows on his face so characteristic of him. He begins by asking about my day so far, and then I tell him without saying, I’ve been looking forward to this day, too. He grabs his cup of water and begins to take a sip. He looks at me looking at him—he must be indulging me. You look like you know what it is you want, he says while bearing the remnants of a smile. Well, I can certainly tell you what I don’t want, I say, just as the waitress returns to take our orders. And that’s when it came on.

It was loud yet gentle. It wasn’t noise as much as it was music. I was not sure where it had originated from or if anyone else could perceive it as I was able to. There it is again, this time unceasing. Could it be? Yes, it is. It is that song again, but this time slow and prolonged. I need to get to it. I excused myself, feeling ashamed for putting my colleague through all the trouble, only to walk out a few moments after sitting down. I’m sorry, I said and quickly ran out into the humid and cloudy afternoon. It kept on going, and now I had a sense of where it was coming from.

The pier. I ran faster than I knew I could, each stride ever-increasing the intensity of the elusive musical composition. People watched and wondered as I passed by, dodging vehicles and maneuvering through the high-rises. Suddenly and without realizing it, I was already leaving city limits. I ran alongside a hill range rich in pasture and teeming with wildlife of all sorts: bison locking their eyes on my every move while chomping their greenery, herds of disturbed buck displeased at my sudden passing, and unvexed white-coated rocky mountain goats. I knew I was getting closer because I could smell the sand, seaweed, and brine and could feel the thud of the ocean against the shore. Then all of a sudden, lightning struck but no rain. I got to the pier and ran toward the very edge. At this point, the ocean breeze was turbulent in nature but intermittent. My heart rate was no longer in sync with the song’s beat, and I could feel the blood flowing through every vessel in me. I stood against the railing, and there you were.