The Simple Story. (in short)

“For what it is worth, I truly did love you,” he forced his flooded eyes away from her as he offered her these final words. He stood empty, feeling like an honest man before a jury whose sentence would surely be one of death. She responded indirectly, yet direct way by walking away, getting in her car and driving off without a word, gesture or glance back. It was the end.

Not the end, another end. Simple stood hands hanging limply at his sides. Through the haze of the street lamp he watching the taillights fade into the October night. He told himself she would not turn around, she would not be seen coming back white lit this time in place of red. He told himself to just let it die, let the last gasps of air escape the lungs and the spirit soar into the life beyond; yet self would not listen, self hoped beyond all logic for twin, white lanterns to mark the rebirth. The lanterns never came.

In his mind’s eye Simple was as plain a man as the next man on the morning train. He knew that each ageing character surround him carried shadows behind their eyes, dark trunks of un-sorting items and other maladies; everyone does. Simple was no different than anyone else. Simple had had ends just as stubby little accountant that sat across the aisle from him day in and day out had had ends. Simple had scars no deeper than the beautiful ‘aspiring model/secretary’ that sat in front of him each Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday as he returned to his flat. Simple was the quintessential man.

Looking back now I think it was this archetypal quality about Simple that first struck me when we met; or that and the fact that he was my roommate, my slightly ‘square-ish’, roommate. We were both students in secondary school, and I say ‘think’ because at the time I had not the presence of mind to put my finger on the draw. I knew we were agreeable, luckily, and that was sufficient. He was nondescript, did not need a crowd, did not even like crowds. He always took his women one at a time if he was invested in one at all. If ever I could drag him to a party he was generally found in the corner, nursing a drink, discussing something that I found altogether disinteresting with an individual I generally had never even taken heed of. My continued attempts to pull him towards the limelight, where I lived, “to show the world what I see in you” were always met by him looking at the floor, drawing circles with his big toe whilst shrugging his shoulders. “Simple, Simple, Simple…But there will be girls there!” I used to say in exasperation. It seemed a book or a paper generally stole his attention away from the more beautiful persuasions I ceaselessly chased. Yet, he was my mate, my best mate.

djmase
incomplete
10.15.08