Work Text:
Dear Diary,
She walked past me again today on the bus, the small woman with the dreadlocks. That makes it everyday for about a month now.
I always get off the bus before she does, but one day soon I will stay on to see where it is she is going. She’s not like everybody else. The man in the suit, I can tell he is going to his office. His shirt is always creased slightly, which means he probably lives of his own, and the over powering scent of his morning coffee tells me he gets too many late nights than he’d care to admit to. He is finely shaved, which means he is likely in a position of authority, but I can see it in the way his eyes gloss over as he stares out of the window at the city passing by that he is not happy.
There is the woman with her daughter too. They are going to school. The little girl with the puffy, pink coat that her mother insists she zip up all the way to the top. The girl looks a tad uncomfortable, but she also looks warm, and in this unforgiving Toronto weather that’s all that matters. She often looks across to me, and smiles. I smile back, occasionally I will poke out my tongue, and she will laugh, tugging on her mothers arm to show her my silly face. Her mother smiles knowingly at me, her eyes thanking me for keeping her daughter occupied as she rifles through her dinosaur backpack to make sure she has everything.
They are on opposite ends of the spectrum, aren’t they? The lonely, unhappy man with his work and his coffee, and the obviously stressed mother with the lovely smiling girl who makes it all seem worthwhile. I sometimes wonder which one I will become. My work is my life, and I am happy, but I can see in that man’s eyes the spark. I can see he loved something a long time ago, but all that is left is a hollow machine, monotonously going through the motions of a daily routine. I can tell myself, as I often do, that my work helps people. I am doing a good thing, and that it needs my full attention, but deep down I fear that I will wake up one morning and my love will be gone and there will be nothing - no-one - there to fill it.
And then…then there is her. The first ray of sunshine at dawn and the final glimpse of the sunset. I cannot work her out. Her face, and her walk, tell me that she is a model. Such structure and confidence, and the dreadlocks too. She definitely does not work in an office. Her clothes tell me that she is a student. Full of patterns and colour. The kind of youthful, liberal defiance that all students seem to identify with, all students apart from me of course.
Her briefcase, however, screamed professionalism. It was made from black leather with gold locks. Whatever was inside was surely highly classifies. I remember, one time I thought I had her figured out. A care-free student with the world at her feet, but once she arrived with that case, I saw a seriousness in her that I had never imagined possible.
It could be her who fills the emptiness in my soul. No. It is her. She is what I need, what I crave. She is the part of me that I threw away for my career, for my progression. I see the same joy and zest for life that I had when I left France. The same qualities that Aldous soon forced out of me. I am just like him now. Not quite like Rachel, but if she has her way, that is where I am to go.
Perhaps that is why I will not speak to her. I am scared that in order to be with me, she would have to loose that part of herself. That would be unforgivable.
How dare I even consider that she, the human embodiment of Athena, would even talk to a wretch such as me? I am not worthy.
But I will try to be better. For her.
_
Dear Diary,
She looked different today. She was thinner and paler, but her winged eye liner was still thick and she strutted to her seat as if this where a catwalk. She dragged an IV on a pole next to her, the same briefcase hanging from it. Yes. I remember thinking. This is my girl. She fights. I see that in her.
I tried my best to smile at her today, but the realisation that she was ill hit me in the chest like a train. This goddess, my little Aphrodite, with her beauty, grace and undeniable brilliance was a mortal, just like me. I hated it. She is too good for this end. She deserves to go out in a blaze, written in folklore and studied for centuries to come, not slip away slowly like the fluid in her IV.
The bus jolted and she almost fell, I had never moved so quick in my life, but a firm palm stopped me. She leaned fer full weight, although that didn’t appear to be much at all any more, against her IV stand and regained her composure. How could it be, that even in this state, that she was stronger than I could ever be in a thousand lifetimes. “I’m fine.” She told me, with a voice that kick started my heart, “Thank you.” I wanted to ask her to sit with me, but the words couldn’t escape my lips. Instead I smiled and nodded, allowing her to pass me.
If today has taught me anything, diary, it’s that life is too short. Tomorrow, I will tell her.
_
Dear Diary,
I have not seen the woman for two weeks.