Making Room

As I thoughtfully deliberated upon and anticipated … I miss him. Yet, the choice I still made considering. For the missing and longing I realized I could still keep close to me and in this ability I found the relief I had been searching.

Nothing lost.

So on that day I found courage and strength. I tightly bound up my love for him then wedged it perfectly in the deepest crevice of my heart. Where I heard all of my promised intentions stored here were incapable of changing shape or meaning. It’s also where the most stubborn of heartbeats are created, so occasionally they said my ears might ring.

Regardless, when the binding was over I regained my composure and the misery of disappointed affections were temporarily relieved. Just as planned. I still miss him but at least there’s now room to breath.

All is gained.

The Weeping Willow

I thought it was time, so I opened the door of the hallway, where our guest had been waiting, and asked her to join. I held the heavy door as her small frame walked briskly ahead of me into the large room where chattering voices and the smell of strong coffee and cigarette smoke filled the space. She kept her eyes down. Her long brown hair covered her face as she poured herself a cup of coffee in the last assorted mug available. It read “I Heart New York” on one side and a black and white sketch of the New York skyline displayed on the other. It was a tasteless souvenir mug I hated and brought from home to donate to the office collection, but as she sipped from the edge with her soft red lips I found myself heavily considering taking it home again.

“Can you put another pot on, please?” I instructed my assistant across the room. It had stopped dripping hot hours ago, and at this time of year, we use it to keep our hands warm and fuel for these evenings. A few of us glanced up at the clock as it struck 8 pm.  We should get back to work became the unspoken consensus, and everyone began to navigate towards their usual seats around the large boardroom-like table.

It was a typical Tuesday night. However, from the look of a few repeated outfits, for some, it had been a typical Monday night where the long conversations that flushed out the old ideas had been drenched with whiskey so that every ounce of the conscience was washed away and the better ideas could surface; thanks to the neighborhood pub around the corner, and the paid company bar tab they would enjoy for the next eight weeks. Weekends were saved for the shows; the dress rehearsals, long gowns, and the put-on your makeup events. But weekdays always looked the same; baseball hats, unshaven faces, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

An open seat had been reserved for our guest, but as I took mine, directly across from hers, I noticed she hesitated to sit. I suppose if she had, it would have been my cue to give a formal introduction but instead, she stood behind her chair, head still down, staring at the warm mug she held with both hands. She swayed ever so slightly back and forth, back and forth. Those of us who noticed began to study.

I’ve always known her to be rather surprising and a bit peculiar, but over the years she’s cultivated some pretty good cover-ups. Her long wavy hair skimming her waist gives her the most feminine air, her floral tattoo adorning her wrist, dainty rings symmetrical on each hand, and long soft eyelashes seem to nicely counteract an intensity she feels is for the most part, better off hidden. The majority of her closet is black and couture. If she likes a piece, she’ll buy two or three of the same. Mornings for her are best enjoyed in bed until the very last second. This was made in part by the premeditated first chore of the day being effortless as she could slip quickly into her curated and repeated black blouses, black jeans, and expensive black Italian boots. Her lovers, too, appreciated the thoughtfulness of her routine.

Slowly, one by one, chattering began to cease as eyes started to notice her. As intended, the observants in the room watched curiously. However, instead of cutting the silence with something witty, this group refrained.

I know the quick wits for hire very well and adore my sessions with them. All I have to do is put a recorder on and let them banter with each other until the scene is exhausted. In the evening, I’d just type out the best one-liners and assign them to the leads. It was easy, but the team assembled this evening was different. They are here to observe and observe entirely. It can come down to the look and feel of an emotion, and not everyone sees these feelings with such vivid detail and color. This crew was hand-selected, with a few pragmatics sprinkled in the bunch. It’s the slower, more texturized approach to coming to a conclusion. It takes a bit longer to conclude a scene because the mountains are filled with trees and creatures, and sometimes it rains, but the path they take always leads to a full truth, never half. This group can be witty, don’t get me wrong, but all of those lines, witty or not, have to connect into the long frame of the story, and without this particular team, we might get there incorrectly. It matters how conclusions arrive.

So, there she stood, her eyes noticeably red, her hands stained with ink, and her inner lips and teeth slightly purple from what I suppose was wine earlier. I wonder where she went for dinner and with whom. Purple-stained lips didn't seem to alter her poise though. As I recall she could blow a zero after a bottle, so it was something else that kept her strong and intent, and although seemingly, to be in the thick of some sort of brokenness, she was beautiful.

I shouldn’t assume brokenness so decidedly. I’ll correct myself. If she’s taught me anything, it’s that the conclusions of the quick to jump make for the most mundane, boring, and frustrating of character developments. There is nothing honest about them really and nothing worth publishing from our platform.

She set her mug down then crossed her arms rather high on her chest as if she were protecting something important and knew exactly where it sat between her perfect chest. One more barrier for the piece she'd been cultivating, I imagined. Only the most perceptive would notice this defense, but since the room housed only writers, I knew there was more than one of us narrating this cue.

Then a tear fell down her neckline and onto her black blouse. Then another, and another, until she let out a deep and safe cry that each corner of the room could feel. The now wet mascara that coated her long lashes drew two lines down the sides of her cheeks, and she sobbed. The sob one does when everything is felt at once and there’s nowhere to turn except within, where it’s the most familiar and safe, but the depth is unknown. Then a laugh. When you reach the bottom you have to laugh, apparently. The laugh that comes out involuntarily when the sadness finally gives up. I’m curious to know if she gets there every time.

The laugh seemed to wake her from her introspective trance, and as she pulled her chair out to finally take her seat, her gaze met the audience she had been neglecting. If she had made any kind of contact with us before this moment, one of us would have begun to console thinking this display was interactive, or at that it was at least acceptable to be humane when someone cries. Which is the last thing she wants. Yet, as a formality, she apologized for crying and gave a soft smile as she made eye contact with a few of us. She can connect through pen to paper most definitely. I’ve read everything she’s ever written, but what a thrill to have her eyes meet mine again. I missed her.

Seemingly pleased with her new surroundings, she addressed the room with her own introduction. I didn’t hear a word, unfortunately.  I just thought it was stunning the way her mouth moved when words left her lips and how her eyes lit up when she heard herself say something true that she hadn’t thought of before. The modulated sounds of her voice were warm as they reached the ceiling and bounced off the walls of my heart. She's stunning, I thought. The drying tears and redness looked captivating, like proud battle wounds rather than what one might assume were soft spots, not yet ready for real life.

I glanced at Sean, who had the same look across his face as I. Taken. One of the pragmatists chosen for this project who had a complex disdain for the trait weakness. He abhorred it when evident in men but seemed to not mind it in women. Possibly preferring it in some cases thinking this ingenue could perhaps be molded into his liking. If he thinks our guest to be moldable, he couldn’t be more wrong.

Interestingly, she cares nothing of her observers’ reactions; either positive, negative, or indifferent. Being vulnerable is as matter-of-fact as the sun rising or setting. The need for rain clouds to release their heavy weight on umbrella-less pedestrians is as matter-of-fact as if cut deep enough a human will bleed.

She couldn’t help it. She may hide her strength but rarely her sadness. It’s the only thing she wants flowing through her freely. For in her mind, it’s the easiest truth to access and truths should be expressed, mainly for the need of the one expressing. Too many people walk around hiding from each other and themselves, and the act just seems so exhausting. Life is sad. Really sad. And acknowledging that is exactly what makes her smile in the aftermath with such sincerity and keeps her alive despite the usual calories or happiness which the rest of us metabolize for our power source. 

This exact reasoning is why we bring her in for these sessions — when writers want to know the depth or real strength of a character but can’t seem to get it. When they want to know the heart but might not know how that particular clock was wound for ticking. It’s rather the moving of her mind around precise sadness that we connect with our leads. There are places she’s gone to and survived and wounds kept fresh that she has close to the surface, ready to jump from her heart and strike yours into bleeding. She’s made sense of most heartbreaks but refuses to mock them or turn them into linings of silver. She’d rather not rewrite those histories, but instead, live with exactly what they are. Unapologetically respecting the pain for what is and always should be...painful.

I prompted her to begin our process by asking her a question, and her answer began to portray a beautiful reverence for him.  She smiled each time his name left her lips and at every part of him she seemed to accept. It was at that moment I knew how I'd ask the team to portray our lead. She loved him for all the right reasons, and he would be her equal. The story would start there.

The Weeping Willow. Bring her in.