Watching
Paranoia blew through her hair. Even if she knew why he watched her, she
wouldn't have cared.
Blow. She sees the invention of the mind as the dumbest concept yet.
Blow. Even if she could see the future, she'd rather live in the past.
He looks through the window. She's in the alley again digging through the
trash.
"Even if you do get away," he says, "I'll still be here waiting for you.
You'll come back and see me again."
Cold. She gives him a look. A dark kind of figure many stories up, looking
menacing. She digs through the trash again, looking for something to eat.
Cold. "I'll only ever be anything as long as I can watch you from a safe
distance."
Cold. "I think, though you're covered with muck, that you're the most--but
how to put it? Sensual woman I've ever seen."
She finds some spagetti in black garbage bag. She smiles, sniffs. Smells
okay. She pulls some noodles out and eats.
Cold. Bussiness man from many stories up strokes his tie and smiles. "Who
were you before?" He thinks he knows. "You were someone like me, weren't
you?"
Snap. She climbs down from the dumpster.
Snap. She puts some of the noodles in a small cardboard box box in her
shopping cart.
Calm. She looks up at the man in the window. She thinks: what was he like
before he sold his soul?
Calm. She has enough noodles to last for a day or two.
She starts to wheel her cart out of the alley. Eyes close and body stops to
the beat of memories pounding in her head. Remember those things you want
to forget? Remember the stopsigns and the minivan and the husband and the
kids and the dog and the....
Forget that the memories were never real and that you really have no past.
Forget that there are really two, twenty people living inside your skull at
any time.
He sees her walking away, straining to push her cart. He knows that he will
see her again; hopes he will, at least. The Italian resturant on the other
side of the alley keeps her coming back. She can't get enough of their
noodles.
He waves goodbye while her back is turned. He knows that she won't
see--that's the point, of course.
He sits at his desk and shuffles some papers, looks at his computer screen.
Does he love her? He doesn't know anything about her. But what is love
anyway? It's the way she sometimes looks toward the sky and sees him. It's
the way that she doesn't really smile when she sees him but seems content
all the same. There's a peacefulness to her pale, expressionless face.
He says the words underneath his breath: "I love you. I love you."
He runs to the window and opens it. "Hey!" he says.
She turns around, looks up.
He's flustered. He doesn't know what to do.
He throws a stapler at her. It barely misses her, but it startles her just
the same. She pushes her cart as fast as she can run.
Personality #6: The angry, humiliated personality.
"Stay the hell out of here!" he says. "Decent people work here, you know!"
He closes the window and sits down at his desk.
Bewilderment. How to tell her that he loves her now, after this incident?
Will she ever come back?
She decides to find another dumpster when she wants lunch.
He decides to get a new job. He thinks: I've always wanted to be a cowboy.
He goes back to work.
She walks aimlessly, remembering a life she never led.