The glass felt cool and impossibly smooth against his forehead; a perfect plane of resistance for the turmoil inside his head. Beyond the window and far below, the lights of the city hung shimmering in the darkness, like tiny tarnished beacons dancing in the sultry depths of the early July morning. Watching them ebb and twinkle through a haze of sleep-deprived exhaustion, the man realized with a sense of resignation that he had literally and figuratively outstayed his welcome. It was time to go home.
The tiny apartment with its fantastic view of the city centre did not belong to him. At that particular moment, he was no longer sure he really knew the person it did belong to at all. It was three a.m, and he felt for all the world as though some malicious, unseen giant had taken his body in one of its massive invisible fists and begun to squeeze. As he struggled to shake off the feeling of oppression that threatened to settle over him and leave him helpless against the window, he turned his head slightly and suddenly realized that she was still standing in the corner of the room. As his eyes caught the reflection of her thoughtful face looking after him from behind a tangled mass of blonde curls, he felt the bottom of his stomach flip-flop with uncertainty. He had been in that apartment for far too long.
She was the reason he was there. In fact, she was pretty much the only reason he had done much of anything in the past three weeks. She had taken him by storm, and had made each day seem new and exciting. She seemed to understand him, and he had responded to that quickly. Maybe, it seemed now, a little too quickly. It had been difficult not to: she seemed to instinctively know what made him tick. Music, literature, film, art; even sports. It had been a long time since he had felt a connection to someone that had been so immediate, and he had allowed it to take flight right from the first encounter. Now it was all coming to an end.
Reluctant to leave the window as though the city would vanish into the night once he was no longer there to watch over it, he slowly lifted his head from the glass and exhaled heavily. It was difficult to accept, now that he realized that there was no future in any of it. In one evening, the possibility of anything lasting had evaporated with the last rays of the setting sun, filtering painfully away to the sound of a three piece jazz band playing in the basement of a little-known restaurant somewhere between the downtown buildings that he was watching now. For her, the experience of the initial encounter had apparently run its course, and her interest had migrated to the tall blond man playing the trumpet on that tiny stage, almost obsured by the cigarette smoke swirling below the poor lighting.
He turned away from the window and looked back at her, his eyes heavy with both sleep and disappointment. Even now she looked like an angel; the delicate features of her face looking somehow softer as her eyes followed him silently across the room towards the tiny kitchen counter. The apartment seemed still, as though a careful balance hung between its walls like the tension on a body of water that one dared not disturb. Only the quiet, mournful strains of Lisa Gerrard’s “The Mirror Pool” filled the space between them; the perfect soundtrack for a moment heavy with regret and unfulfilled potential.
As he moved retreived his car keys from the counter, the click of the metal as he lifted them into his hand seemed deafening and out of place. She looked at him questioningly, as though she wanted to say something but the words just wouldn’t come. Instead, she sat down on the couch and stared at the floor for a minute, then cast her eyes towards his once more. It was all he could do not to be frozen in place. He could remember the last time she sat in that spot; so close to him that he could feel the rise and fall of her breath. He could remember the touch of her hand, cautious but playful, as she secretly entwined her fingers with his as their friends laughed along with the movie they had rented, oblivious.
As he reached for his boots, he remembered the last time he had left this place. She had followed him quietly to the door and waited until he had finished tying his shoes and stood to leave, and she had pulled him quickly towards her and kissed him. Something about that kiss would stay with him for a long time. It had been urgent, but not aggressive. Soft, but passionate. There had been something in that kiss that he had been unable to place; something intangible and indescribable. Now, as he struggled with his laces, it seemed a beautiful but excruciating goodbye.
He had been sure that this time would be different. Something about it had seemed so new and fresh, and unlike anything he had experienced before. Now it all seemed like a lie; like a cruel illusion of something that simply was not what it seemed. He was tired. Physically, emotionally, and psychologically tired, and he wanted more than anything to forget all of it. There was nothing else to say; no more apologies to accept and no more excuses to make. The cycle had simply run its course, and it was time to go.
He looked back one last time at that beautiful face and could sense the fatigue in her eyes. He knew that it had not been an easy thing for her to do, and somewhere deep inside of himself, he was glad. It would be a long time before he would be able to rekindle the friendship, and they would never be close the same way that they had been; but that was the way it had to be. With heavy eyes and a heavier heart, he wordlessly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. It was going to be a long walk home.
