I was inspired by Stephanie White’s She and Him, written for Thought Catalog – June 5, 2013. I’m not sure I recreated the magic of that piece, but this blog isn’t about being as good as or better than other writers; it serves to help me better myself. Nothing I write is ever finished, and this is no exception but for now, here it goes:
She, toys with an invisible thread, desperate for anything to distract her from the task at hand. It isn’t that she doesn’t like people. It’s far more to do with how lost she feels in a crowd, the sounds, the people, the agonizing din of laughter, and chatter, and chewing gum, and …breathing. The breathing is hers, deep breaths to calm her, but sometimes shallow, fast, staccato like hitches as she searches desperately for something to say. So, she toys with the invisible thread, hoping, nay, praying no one sees she is there.
He sees her when she enters the room. These evenings are dull but expected. One doesn’t build a business without networking, and networking requires a few drinks to say the least. Any new face, is a relief against the sycophancy of pretending to care, about who you are, and where you work, just so a new card can be added to the Rolodex, but it is expected. He watches her, as she scurries off to the corner of the room, without even doing a round, how she lowers her head the moment she senses anyone may be watching, looking,… lurking as he does from across the room. He is fascinated by her fingers, too far away to notice their detail yet entranced by the slow delicate weave they make of an invisible thread. He orders her a drink.
I didn’t see him walk over, but I felt him. Instinctively I turned towards what could only be described as the warmth of the sun. He said his name was John, I gave mine and managed a weak smile. Moments went by, before he suggested we move to the balcony. I don’t remember if I agreed; I suppose I must have. There, in the dimly lit comfort of that open space, I noticed the truth of him; strong hands, kind eyes – that crinkled when he laughed and lit up with warmth. His mouth wore laugh lines that faded into a pleasant face, and birthed a strong lusty laugh when his head tilted back to display a stubborn chin. I noticed too my own need to inch closer to his warmth.
“We, are not the constant whirlwind of passion I dreamed of as girl,” she says. “Passions ebb and flow; in the beginning it was the newness of undiscovered lands, now we revel in the stillness of evenings spent on the couch. We find absurd comfort in the monotony of cutting bell peppers next to each other in the kitchen. Weird things makes sense now, like how his six foot two frame finds an easy gait next to me – barely five foot. And how hands fit so perfectly into each other as fingers interlace without a moment’s thought. I was drawn to his warmth but now I am grounded by it. We do not complete each other” she laughs, “It’s like turning the pages of a book, we are always curious about the next chapter, how his story will influence mine. How I influence him”
They remain as ever, she and he, with whole lives and histories separate – from their we.