An Allegory for Nothing At All
Allow me to paint you a picture. You are sitting across the table from a woman. Her eyes are bright, reflecting the light from the neon signs outside the window that she is looking at. You can’t see the signs, as they’re behind you, you only know they’re there from the reflection. You imagine that none of them say anything more enlightening than 'Open' or 'Free Wifi'. Nothing important enough to draw your attention away from the woman.
The woman’s hair reminds you of the girl you used to sit next to in Second Grade. You can’t remember that girl’s name, but you think it started with a C, or maybe a K. Either way, your teachers always got it wrong, and you always felt that hint of pride that you knew better, mixed with a feverish hatred that only flared higher with each successive time that the same teacher would make the same mistake. The candle set between you and the woman is fake, but it flickers like it's real. Or like the battery is dying, but no matter the reason it adds to the atmosphere.
The woman is dressed just slightly more formally than you, and you can’t help but feel that she fits into this room more than you ever could. She keeps on reaching across the table to run her fingers through the condensation blanketing the jug of water that sits between you. You can’t see if she’s etching a pattern, or if the lines are random. You want to refill your glass, but it seems rude to disturb her.
She hasn't glanced at you for seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds.
You would think the woman was beautiful, if it wasn’t for something beyond her features, that twist in the tone of her voice. Still, you can’t bring yourself to despise her, or leave.
You want to hear her say something to you, to do more than trace patterns in condensation and look at the lights behind you with her too-bright eyes. You want to ask her if she knew the girl from second grade, or if she knew someone like her. You want to ask her why she agreed to come at all, what she sees in you, so that you can see it in her. You can't bring yourself to say these things, but you still want to ask her—
She looks at you, no tears in her eyes, no smile on her lips, no crease in her brow. Her eyes meet yours, and you've forgotten what color they were before, that had so thoroughly captured your attention. Now they're not just her eyes, but a window, a mirror, a truth, a lens, or a lie.
“Please stop watching,” she doesn't say, but if she had known what you were seeing, she would have. “I don’t mind if you look, but stop staring, perpetually hoping, pleading for something that I don’t have to give you.” She wouldn't speak in those words, but I will, I'll put my words in her mouth, because I'm just like you.
This isn’t one of our poems, my perfectly formulated mysteries, your etiological myths. The painting isn’t literal, I was just using a turn of phrase, nothing more, please trust me. This is a woman, whose eyes have turned away, and if you listen, I can remind you what color they were. This story doesn’t have to be hard to understand, we—. This story doesn’t need to be anything more than yours, and hers. Let it belong to you, to something more than me, and something less than everything.
The woman’s hair reminds you of the girl you used to sit next to in Second Grade. You can’t remember that girl’s name, but you think it started with a C, or maybe a K. Either way, your teachers always got it wrong, and you always felt that hint of pride that you knew better, mixed with a feverish hatred that only flared higher with each successive time that the same teacher would make the same mistake. The candle set between you and the woman is fake, but it flickers like it's real. Or like the battery is dying, but no matter the reason it adds to the atmosphere.
The woman is dressed just slightly more formally than you, and you can’t help but feel that she fits into this room more than you ever could. She keeps on reaching across the table to run her fingers through the condensation blanketing the jug of water that sits between you. You can’t see if she’s etching a pattern, or if the lines are random. You want to refill your glass, but it seems rude to disturb her.
She hasn't glanced at you for seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds.
You would think the woman was beautiful, if it wasn’t for something beyond her features, that twist in the tone of her voice. Still, you can’t bring yourself to despise her, or leave.
You want to hear her say something to you, to do more than trace patterns in condensation and look at the lights behind you with her too-bright eyes. You want to ask her if she knew the girl from second grade, or if she knew someone like her. You want to ask her why she agreed to come at all, what she sees in you, so that you can see it in her. You can't bring yourself to say these things, but you still want to ask her—
She looks at you, no tears in her eyes, no smile on her lips, no crease in her brow. Her eyes meet yours, and you've forgotten what color they were before, that had so thoroughly captured your attention. Now they're not just her eyes, but a window, a mirror, a truth, a lens, or a lie.
“Please stop watching,” she doesn't say, but if she had known what you were seeing, she would have. “I don’t mind if you look, but stop staring, perpetually hoping, pleading for something that I don’t have to give you.” She wouldn't speak in those words, but I will, I'll put my words in her mouth, because I'm just like you.
This isn’t one of our poems, my perfectly formulated mysteries, your etiological myths. The painting isn’t literal, I was just using a turn of phrase, nothing more, please trust me. This is a woman, whose eyes have turned away, and if you listen, I can remind you what color they were. This story doesn’t have to be hard to understand, we—. This story doesn’t need to be anything more than yours, and hers. Let it belong to you, to something more than me, and something less than everything.
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