“Living?” I say.
“Isn’t that what you do?”
“Well, yes,” I say.
“I don’t see how you manage,” she says.
I shrug. I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing in me that I can think of. I’m relying on her to do the talking.
“It’s a beautiful day today,” she says.
We both look out to the sea. And as we do, I can sense her go into herself, into her private thoughts, which is where I would like to go, into her life and her personality, to reach across the space between us and find — not love, but there’s something I want from her, a feeling I want to have, and if I could get it, then love wouldn’t matter.
“I hope it lasts,” she says.
“Me too,” I say.
My interest in her is obvious. She can see that I like her, and although she likes that, because she doesn’t want to lead me on, she begins talking about seagulls. She says they make her nervous. She tells me about an arch that used to exist, carved by the sea in the sandstone cliffs, and that over time, because of the sea’s incessant pounding, the bridge of the arch has worn away, and the thing that used to be there, that you used to be able to walk across, is gone.
When I don’t respond about the rocks, she begins busying herself with the picnic basket. She’s brought olives and napkins and sandwiches and she begins unpacking and organizing these things on the green blanket. The seagulls are flying overhead, gliding against the breeze off the water, and one seagull drops a load of shit. It lands in the grass at the edge of the blanket and she doesn’t like it. She stands up to move the blanket, but I have an idea. “An idea,” I say, and I walk over to a wooden building at the edge of the grass. It’s a bridge club for senior citizens and some broad-leafed plants are growing near this building. I find a large flat leaf from the bottom of a bush and I pull it off the stalk. I go to the turd and attempt to scoop the turd up in the leaf. But because it’s not a solid piece of turd, it doesn’t want to be scooped up. “Come on,” I say. I’m talking to the little gray guano. “Come on into the leaf.” And it’s easier, in a way, talking to a turd than a human being. And because it’s also slightly ridiculous, Linda begins smiling. And smiling is good, so I keep trying, unsuccessfully, to scoop it up. She’s still smiling when we finally decide to move the blanket, and when we do, and as her smiling dies down, I start wondering, Why couldn’t I be with her? Why couldn’t that be my life? We seem to get along, and I’m energized by this sense of getting along and the potential for future getting along. When she pulls at the bottom of her shirt I tell her that I understand how someone might want that.
She holds up the arm of her yellow shirt. “It wicks moisture away from the body,” she says.
“Your shirt,” I say.
“Supposedly.”
She’s talking about her shirt.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“I mean that it must not be made of cotton,” I say.
And although our conversation is not in absolute sync, it doesn’t matter because in my proximity to her I feel that I exist. I believe the casual touching, as we reach for sandwiches, and her acknowledgment of that touching, means that the world we’re creating is real. I’m enjoying the sense of reality, thinking about how I can maintain my promixity to that reality when she begins unwrapping her sandwich. My sandwich is still in its plastic on the blanket, but she unwraps hers. She begins eating hers. Not just eating; she brings her whole attention to the act of eating, absorbing herself in the fact of eating, staring at nothing as she chews each bite of basil leaf and mozzarella and the red tomato between the slices of bread.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the blanket, my knee almost touching her knee, but like a tree in the proverbial forest, I seem, for a moment, not to exist.
And then she finishes eating. She looks up.
“There you are,” she says, blinking her eyes. “Are you ready?”
She doesn’t focus immediately, but when she does she sees me, and we begin packing up the picnic supplies. You’d be able to see in my eyes that I want to stay with her or walk with her, to somehow be with her, and I’m disappointed that what I want doesn’t happen. She has to meet Geoffrey, she says. She’s in love with Geoffrey.
And because I’m disappointed, and because I’m letting that disappointment show, and because she doesn’t want to be the cause of my disappointment, she invites me to dinner.
“Tonight?” I say.
“If you want,” she says.
And I say that yes, I can make it. I have no previous engagements. I tell her I’d be happy to come, and I want her to see that I know it’s just a dinner, nothing more, just an invitation, but that’s enough. If I could have that, I wouldn’t need anything more.
2
I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering along Garnet Avenue, aimlessly watching the quotidian world of people driving cars, walking dogs, stepping out of dental offices. In an effort to merge with that world I walk up to a gray-haired woman and ask her for directions to the nearest supermarket. Even though I already know where the supermarket is, I’m grateful to the woman for talking to me. I can tell she’s happy to talk, pleased to be practicing the ritual of talking, glad to be useful or real. And for a few minutes I feel real. But I can also feel myself fading, feel that the woman, even before she ends her speech, has forgotten I’m there, that even before she turns and walks away, the brief reality we’d created is gone.
I try it again, this time with a man, his hair tied back in a ponytail. He walks up a street with vines growing over the sidewalk and I follow him to the corner. While he’s waiting for the light to change I get close to him and look at him and I would speak to him but so many other things are going on. A million things are happening — the cars and the houses and the weeds in the cracks in the sidewalk. When I don’t pay attention to any one of them, in that moment of not paying attention, they seem not to exist. For a moment the man has left my mind, and when I turn back to him he’s already crossing the street. He’s already walking away, getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
I’m trying to fill the time of waiting with something other than waiting, but all I do is wait. I notice, while I’m waiting, the obvious fact of the sun on my skin or the bus-stop bench I’m sitting on, but my concern isn’t the bus-stop bench. My concern is later, the future, and then the future arrives.
I’m sitting at a table with Geoff and Linda, in a crowded Japanese restaurant. I seem to be able to listen, to direct my mind away from the thought of my feet in my shoes, and by listening I seem to be able to keep the world intact. I can hear Geoff talking about picture frames, the existential implications of picture frames. He works at a frame-making shop and he’s talking about how a picture frame, by eliminating the extraneous distractions of the world, imposes order on the world. By focusing attention on a limited field of awareness, even an empty frame on a blank wall causes us to see the wall, and the color of the wall, and the cracks in the plaster, in a way we would never have noticed before. He says that without the frame — he’s talking about the metaphorical frame — the world would turn into chaos. Which is fine for him, because his frame is solid and firm and agreed upon.
My frame, on the other hand, is fading away, which is why, after Linda serves herself from the various dishes of food, I reach over, take the large spoon, and start scooping food onto my empty plate. I want to try everything, I think. Load it on, I think, and I keep filling my plate until the plate is piled with food. I separate my chopsticks, but when I look down at the pyramid of rice and tofu and green pieces of vegetable, although I would like to have even the slightest desire to eat, I don’t. I have the desire for desire, but not desire itself. I can’t even imagine taking a bite, or if I did, that eating food is something I’m capable of doing.