Mumblings

So how would you describe her?

I listened to the question, looking up at the tiles in her office.  They were fairly old, some with water marks like a long ago leak had stained them.  The leather couch (obligatory) was well dented, and smelled slightly of tobacco.  It wasn't a totally unpleasant smell...it felt like a reminder, or perhaps others had spilled here too.

Could you put on some music I asked...hating the pale silence in the room.  She nodded and walked over to a radio and briefly touched the top button...a commercial was playing so she fiddled with the dial and soon some jazz spilled out.

thank you I mumbled.

So, let me ask you again...how --

Would I describe her? I interrupted.  Well...I closed my eyes and let the music splinter into my ear.  It was more soothing than the leather, less familiar though...I could feel the indentations of those who preceded me on this leather, spilling tales and woes.  I had neither.  I just had an emptiness that was soon becoming an ache.  And then it became a sleepless episode.  And then it became a month of zero sleep and hundreds of work.  And somebody said I should go see this person that they knew.  And that it might help.  And after an elevator ride into a darkened office with a name on the door I was laying on a couch.  Asking me to describe somebody who I found indescribable. 

She reminds me of a color...

A color?

A color.  Just let me finish...a color that you would try to describe over the phone to somebody who had never seen such a color.  Or a taste...like you let the spoon rest in your mouth and you feel it on your tongue, you feel it dissolving into you...and you look at the other diners and they're just going on eating...never sharing the same taste that you are devouring.

A bit of silence and he thought the music was muted and that he might have actually heard the hand of a clock moving.

devouring is an interesting term she said...writing some jotted words on some neatly lined notebook.

He paused a few moments...wondering if there was Pete Yorn Pandora station and what song would play if he found it.

I chose devouring because it was visceral.  It was engaging.  Like when you carve a Halloween pumpkin and you pull out all the pulp and there are a few stragglers of pulp and you have to take a large spoon and scrape the insides so that you remove every piece...she was like that spoon...I was the pulp...she scraped the foundations...the roots of me...she tugged and pulled them and ripped them from me until they were exposed.  They were hers.

She wrote a few more words in the notebook. 

She could have done anything with me that she wanted.  He mumbled.

I'm sorry, what was that?

Nothing...I just was saying she did that.

Okay.  More jottings.

You mentioned her like a color.  What color...if you could use the standard color palette would you say she was?

That is easy.  Unfortunately I'd have to say brown.

Brown?

Yeah...brown...a color of mixtures.  Not a primary one...not one you'll paint your car...rather a color that is constantly changing. 

Changing?  How so?

You've seen the color of riverbanks...the color of river beds beneath crystal clear streams...the color of earth, the color of bourbon still melting from ice...it is a brown but it is elastic...it changes...it heats up and becomes darker when we are in a candle-lit room together...it is lighter when we are in the daylight and she tells me she doesn't want to see me....it just changes.

More writing.

There was a lot in that sentence.  That last part...when she tells you she doesn't want to see you...what do you mean?

What do I mean?  It's pretty simple.  It's extinguishing.  Lick your thumb and forefinger and snuff the flame.  It's like a candle going out.  It's there and then it's not.  It's not hard.

I realize that...did she say that?

The clock, if there is one, is ticking away and it must be about a minute.  Maybe two.

Yes.  She did.

The music is light and airy.  The talk is about break-ups and broken eggs, things that cannot be put back together.  Destruction. 

And how did you feel about that?

The tiles were diagonal across the ceiling, he noticed.  There were patterns and shapes and things that fit.  Grooves that fit into each other.  No gaps.  Perfectly aligned.

I felt like I was torn in two.

Literally?

Yeah he mumbled...thinking about the removal...the chunk of heart taken and snipped.  He thought about the walls that he assembled and mortared...the gaps spackled over...the rooms in his mind repainted...colors changed...yet everywhere he went there was the dirt...the earth...the drink and the reminder.

Yeah.  Amputation.  A part cut off...and you know what they say...that phantom limb syndrome...they can still feel the missing leg or arm.  I just felt that missing piece of me but it wasn't a leg...he mumbled...it was more destructive.

I'm sorry...I missed that last part.

Forget it.

There was a song playing but all he could hear was her writing. 

Well I think this was a good first session.

You do?  What did you learn?  Because I sure as fuck just felt like I basically took a knife, slotted it into my stomach and spilled some things onto your floor while you wrote tiny notes in a book...one of us is bleeding...and one of us is reading.

She put the pen down.  He opened his eyes and moved on the couch until he was sitting up.  He felt the very first notes of anger...of frustration and a bit of pain...she took off her glasses and regarded him.

I'm sorry if you feel that way...I'm trying to learn you and with that learning I think I can help you.

Help me?

Yes...help you.

Like how.

Like maybe forget her.

He sat back, almost as if hit.  Almost as if she had stabbed him with that fucking pen. 

Instead he smiled slightly...he crossed his arms and he suddenly had a full realization moment, like when you choose something after debating a menu item.  He knew, in whatever was left in his heart.

Forget?  Forget?  That's like asking me to forget how to breathe...how to sleep...how to perform every basic function I do as a machine...then to go further...to forget how to write, how to speak English...to drive.  Your idea is to remove a part of me that is as much of my soul as every prayer I've ever said...every confession I've made.  You think excising it is like removing a stain...but I remind you that she is a color I find on me...a muscle I use...a word I find to struggle to mumble when I need to use the strongest one...she is a reminder...a thief of my parts and my moments...stealing my thoughts and invading my words...she is...of all the things she is..unforgettable.

There were more writings in books but at that point he had stood up and stolen across the room.  The door shutting was a good feeling to him.