He wanted to have long conversations with her. Whirlwinds of words unleashed over coffee. Idle poems sprinkled over the evening walks. Fierce arguments about the future of cinema after the screening of the latest Jarmusch. Funny thing is that one can’t find everything they desire in one person. So every choice for a life partner is basically a compromise. Or at least to the intelligent individuals. But he could have used those conversations as an inspiration bank. That way he could’ve pulled out a slice of her, every once in a while after they had parted ways. She was too precious, too cerebral, to be wasted on monosyllabic utterances that she employed on him. Or the non-existent ones. All he wanted to do was talk to her. Talk. A lot of it. Damn! Why did he care so much?
It was drizzling. He saw her standing in the rain getting wet. There was enough room for her under his umbrella. He asked casually, “Hey, why don’t you come on in?”
She looked back following the trail of his voice. He seemed earnest. She smiled. Her wet glasses made his face look like a mosaic pattern. She needed a better look. And that’s when she took off her glasses.
It was an interstellar burst. An astronomical destruction so spectacular that even time stood still to watch it. “Those eyes”, he thought. “Those are the eyes the next world war will be fought for.”
In that unbearable moment of heightened ecstasy when everything was in slow motion and time had lost its meaning, he heard her voice for the first time, “But I love the rain!”
It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. Better than the sound of rustling bamboo leaves by the paws of Pandas. Better than the sound of Jacobin Cuckoo after the first rain. Better than anything that this world had ever produced. It was music. This was the perfection the entire band of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Schubert and Tchaikovsky tried to achieve, but failed.
“Who is this Goddess?” he thought.
She continued, “Thanks though. We can walk for a while if you’d like.”
And he walked. He walked. He would have walked with her till the end of the land. But for the time he walked her to her apartment.
He was elated as he crossed her apartment door. This was her private world. Her secret garden. He was getting a glimpse of it. A quick glimpse of heaven.
He nestled himself onto the cozy couch with the flamingo colored cover. It felt good.
And then she spoke again. She looked him right in the eye and said with a snide smile, “You done? Now get the fuck out of my home.”
It was loaded with mockery and hate. Her words cut him clean into two halves like a cold blade of a samurai sword. He laid there on the ground for a while, bleeding. Then slowly he collected his tattered remainings from the ground and crawled out of her space.
And as he was trudging down the stairs all he could do was laugh. He laughed out loud. He rolled in laughter. He could not control it. For he had Alexithymia.
He knew some people were just born to be in pain. He knew that’s what made them the greatest. Like Vincent, like Kurt. And right now, he was in terrible pain. He wanted to take a break and cry alone. He wanted to go into his shell. He was trying to understand how much did he have to suffer. He needed to figure out how to survive this torment cause he knew it would be there till the last day of his life. He would never be loved again. Never. Ever. By anyone. He, the loneliest human soul on the planet. He was the new Vincent. He just wished he was a sponge, so he could absorb all the pain from everyone else so they could be happier than they were yesterday. And her. He wanted her to have everything good that God had reserved for him. To the last drop. The last penny. The last laughter. The last happiness. He was OK with pain. He was doing OK. He was God’s man of pain.