“He still talks about you even after all these years you know?” I whispered to her, frustration built up over years rippling out unintentionally. It wasn’t directed at her. None of this was her fault. But I couldn’t help myself. “I’ve been his best friend for years. I listen to his stories every day. Stories about his students, about the things in his life, about the troubles and problems he’s dealing with, about whatever else he has stories about. He’s always smiling when he tells them but I started to notice something.”
“When he smiled telling those stories, he smiled because of his students. He smiled because of the stories he got to tell or the crazy things that happened in his life. There was always something off about it and I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Until I saw him telling you a story. For the first time, I saw him smiling for himself. I don’t know how else to describe it but there’s something different about the way he smiles when he tells you his stories.”
“It’s infuriating honestly.” I shake my head, clench my fists a little. Exhale. “I can’t make my best friend smile like that. No matter how hard I try. No matter how much I listen to his stories, he doesn’t smile for me like that. I listen to him complain all the time but it’s always there in the back of his head and he lets it slip at times: that no one listens to his stories the way you do. A girl he hasn’t talked to in half a decade.”
“I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know what’s happening in your life. I just hope, for his sake, you stay in his life this time, whatever that looks like. He’s a good guy and he’s been living a good life but he’s a storyteller and unless he gets to tell his story to someone, something inside of him is missing. And for whatever reason, the only someone he always wants to tell his story to is you.”
She fiddles with a ring that isn’t on her finger. I never would have noticed it before I became his friend. I can see how deep in thought she is. I can see the hesitation. I’ve met enough people to get a glimpse at what she’s thinking. There’s a much deeper conflict at play than just staying in his life. I just don’t care. Even though I’m not what he needs, I want him to have that. You would think as someone sufficiently advanced in years, I would know what to say in these moments. What to do. But I don’t. So, we sit there in silence. Leaning on desks we’ve long outgrown.
“This is what you choose to write first? This part of the story?” She asks me. I smile tenderly at the shard of glass in my hands. I can feel the Fools exasperation.
“I’m surprised you don’t like the chaos of it.” I say as I search around for another thread to pull. For once, the threads call out to me, highlighted red in a sea of white. “This might not be the first part of the story but it’s interesting isn’t it? It begs you to read the rest. It’s a –”
“Story that wants to be told?” He finishes, scoffing and waving his hand dismissively. “How incredibly droll. Is this meant to be a mirror to the storyteller he is? Is that what you are now? A storyteller?” I smile as I pull on another thread. It’s easier this time, lighter. Something has changed.
“Has it now? Are you a storyteller now?” She repeats. “Some sudden realization behind the scenes?” She asks. Her smile turns Cheshire, bearing down on me, twisting and turning and spiraling into madness. But no, that’s not quite right. She’s questioning me. Forcing me to think. Forcing me to see and confront the madness and still find the calm in it.
“It would have scared you once.” She says, her tone and smile already turning gentler. The grin is still there, turning and turning, each tooth like the hands of a clock.
“It still does.” I counter.
“But this time?” The turning slows and the madness almost feels worse as the teeth blend together into one chaotic image. It doesn’t matter.
“This time, I have a story I want to tell.”
“This time, I have a story I have to tell.”
“I want to take you somewhere.” He tells me. I eye him suspiciously. There’s an innocent smile on his face, the same kind of smile I’ve always seen on him. There’s something else too, something gentler. I’ve seen that too occasionally. A softer smile when he’s doing more than just joking with me. It comes out at the hard times or the soft times. The times when he understands I need more than his innocence or his humor. I wish it was as clear as every bone in my body telling me not to go with him. Or my heart telling me I should go with him. But things have never been that simple with him. With me.
He ambushed me at the end of my shift and I never saw it coming. I wouldn’t say I forgot about him but he definitely wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. He flits across my mind every now and then but it was never anything more than that. Especially now with everything in my life as chaotic as it is. I had so many other fires to put out. I never had time to think of the man no longer in my life. Then again, it’s probably why he’s here.
He’s already made it perfectly clear to me: I can say no, walk away, and he’ll understand. A man I haven’t seen in half a decade shows up suddenly and asks to take me somewhere without telling me where? He’s always been strangely self-aware and never made any apologies for how strange he was. He only ever checked to make sure I was okay with his strangeness. I should be fair. He only ever checked to make sure I was okay with his kindness. Five years ago, I would never have said yes to him.
I should go home. Play with my cat. Keep sorting out my life. But it’s always been like this with him. An international man of mystery he is not. But he is mysterious enough to make me curious. And I know he’s kind and innocent enough to be harmless. If anything, I know he genuinely cares.
Half a decade later, after we lost touch, after I made us lose touch, he still cares.
My fingers grow restless, rubbing against the pale skin on my finger.
For less than a second, his eyes dart to my fingers. It isn’t the absence of the ring he notices or capitalizes on, its merely the action. It’s just the movement of something in his peripheral he focuses on. Something I only know because he told me so many years ago. I make up my mind in that moment. I don’t want him getting the wrong impression. Especially because it’s him. Because I know he’s doing this for my sake. None of this is about him. It’s about me.
“Fine.” I sigh heavily and shake my head at him. But it’s mostly sarcastic and we both know it. Just like that, I’m back into old habits with him. He smiles tenderly at me.
“Well, let’s go then.”
“So, we finally got here did we? The moment when the two fall in love.” I pause for a second. The next red thread to pull already in my hand.
“What’s wrong?” The Cheshire grin is back, spinning once again, but it still doesn’t scare me. I let the thread I'd been ready to pull slip from my hands. I watch as it floats back up into the sky, fading into the darkness. It waits there patiently for me to pull again. Now isn’t the time for that story. There’s a better story for this moment.
“Oh? And why’s that?” she asks me. There’s a genuine curiosity in her voice, beyond the masterful direction her voice usually carries. I smile tenderly at her.
“Because love isn’t a single moment. It isn't the first day. It isn’t the day they get married or the day their daughter is born. It isn’t getting through their worst day. It’s…”
“Love is a Tuesday.” Our voices sing together.
“Here’s breakfast.” I whisper to her. She's still sleeping in bed but she has to work early today so she'll be awake anytime now. As for me, I work early and I naturally wake early so I was already up. Even on her earliest days, I still wake up before her. The only time she’s woken up before me is when she purposely tries to. And even then, as soon as she wakes up, so do I.
It was a struggle at first, trying to wake up early without waking her up. As quiet as I can be, it’s too hard to get out of bed without jostling her awake. She’s too sensitive too movement. I wish I could have said I became a master at getting up without waking her but the truth is much simpler: we bought a better mattress. There was no way for me to roll over or climb out of bed without jostling her awake but in fairness to me, I convinced her to buy the mattress.
The breakfast isn’t anything special either. I wish I was a good enough cook for it to be special and tasty. I wish I could make her favorite breakfast whenever she wants or whenever I know she’s going to have a tough day ahead. I do have some basic cooking skills but not nearly enough to make her something special. She’s tried to teach me and I wish I could say I tried hard to learn but it just isn’t true. I tried hard when she was watching but never more than that. Eventually, she gave up on trying to teach me.
I hope the meager breakfast I make will be enough for her. Maybe it won’t be enough to make her day. Maybe it'll get cold if she wakes up late and taste terrible. Or maybe it’ll be something else I can’t see coming. But that’s not the point. It’s something I have to remind myself every time I do this. It’s not about the futility or the potential for catastrophe. I just hope two things: one, it puts a smile on her face and two, it gives her a small hint as to how much I love her.
I kiss her gently on the cheek. Just enough pressure to make her feel it but not enough to wake her. By the time she wakes up, she probably won’t remember it happened. I do that for myself though. Not for her. It’s a reminder to myself about how I feel about her. I smile when I pull away and see her face. I walk to the bedroom door and take a moment just to see her. She doesn’t look any different than she does any other day. But every time I look at her, I feel like I’m seeing something new. I’m not. She’s still the same woman she was yesterday. But something is different. I smile the whole way and eventually, when the sun starts reminding me of the time of day, I leave to go about my day.
“Breakfast? Really? An idea ripped from a song? Is there an original word in any of these stories?” He's mocking me, throwing his hands up in frustration. He paces through the blackness impatiently. but I don’t mind. There is a tenderness and a gentleness here underlying his words. I’m not sure if his fit is a show or a genuine feeling. But there is something else, something beneath his actions.
“Wouldn’t it be nice? To have breakfast brought to you in bed Fool?” I ask gently.
“Hah. What bed.” He shakes his head at the thought I hadn’t voiced. Where does the Fool sleep? And then I truly start to wonder.
“What would be nice for you Fool?” She’s a bit taken back at that. She stops fuming, pausing to stand in place. She turns her head to the side, considering the question more seriously than I thought she would. She taps her chin gently as she thinks. Eventually, a small, gentle smile pulls at her lips.
“A story. Tell me another story.”
Most people would have taken me to a bar so I could drown my sorrows. Maybe their home so I would feel safe to tell him all about the chaos filling and consuming my life. Instead, he brought me to his school.
It was just after 7:30 PM by the time we arrived. Students and parents were long gone by now. His was the only car in the parking lot but he didn’t take the spot closest to the door. Instead, he took a spot somewhere in the middle. I wondered if he purposely did this to get a rise from me. It was just the type of thing he would do too. His way of cutting through the tension. But then I realized we weren’t going in through the back doors; he was taking me in through a side door.
“Do you teach here?” I asked him. He nodded, leading me to the side door. But he didn’t say anything. He’s been strangely quiet the whole car ride here. Normally, he talks up a storm telling me stories all about his life and I enjoy it. I never feel smothered or silenced by him; if anything, I welcome it. I should have felt ill at ease in that silence, strained, expected to say something but I didn’t feel that way. There was an ever-present smile on his lips that told me I didn’t need to say or do anything. All that smile said was: “don’t worry.”
We eventually stopped at a classroom on the upper floor. I knew immediately it was his. I could tell from the posters and decorations set around the classroom. They screamed his name far louder than the name plate on his door. He told me long ago about the types of decorations and posters he wanted to put up if he ever got the chance. I was glad he did. He was always different and now he had a space he could put it out on display. A space where others could benefit from his uniqueness.
He sat on his desk like a teenager, his feet dangling over the side of the desk and I sat in a desk like his student. I settled myself in and watched him do the same. It didn’t take him long. I could tell it was a spot he took often. There was a childishness to the way he carried himself. In particular, there seemed to be a childish joy in him, the type of happiness which keeps a child from ever frowning. Before I could offer some witty remark about where we were, what we were doing in a school, or how childish he seemed, he started talking.
For the next few hours, we sat in that room. We even ordered food to the school upon which a very confused and skeptical delivery driver met him in the parking lot. He told me stories about his life, about his students, about all the things that had happened since we lost touch. About ex-girlfriends and new jobs. About moving and vacations. About new passions and faded interests. About the painful and hurtful parts of life. But not to invoke my story or to make me feel uncomfortable. He told me for the sake of telling me. He told me stories like he used to and I listened like I used to.
I offered a remark here and there about his stories. More than once I countered his stories with a witty remark or an exasperated sigh. I would poke fun at the parts I could and voice my disbelief at others. We bantered back and forth and he smiled every time. Five years later he was still the same. More mature and settled in his life, but still the same as ever.
This was just what I needed. I found comfort in his stories all those years ago. And I realize now: I still do. I never realized how calming his stories were. Even when we lost contact five years ago, they were just gone. I just thought life had become more chaotic. I was wrong. In hearing about the life he was leading, laughing at the things in his life, listening to the trials and troubles he overcame, I was able to step outside the chaos of my life. It was easy to poke fun at him which only made the both of us laugh. Sometimes my words hurt him but he would shrug it off and smile. My words didn’t cut. They scratched at an itch he couldn’t. Then, he would tell me another story.
I know he wanted to hear my story, to hear about the chaos in my life. It wasn’t only for his sake; it was for mine. I could hear it sometimes in the pauses between his stories. The gentle, tender smile that welcomed me to share my story. But that was all it ever was. An invitation. So, I wouldn’t feel ignored. So, I knew he was ready to listen if I was ready to speak. And when he knew I wasn’t ready, he would start another story.
“Sound familiar Fool?” I asked. She smiles at me.
“That can't be it.” She says quietly, gently. Even though she knows it is. It’s all for the story. We both think.
Before we have even a moment to think about what comes next, another red movie reel descends from the blackness, the story on it already playing between both our eyes.
I take a deep breath and a big gulp of water. My throat is dry from talking—from laughing so much. My cheeks hurt from smiling but it’s a welcome pain. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to tell anyone my story like this. I’ve told others my story before but no one responds like her.
Every time I pause, I have to remind myself not to ask. I’m curious of course and five years ago, I would have just asked. Said it’s okay if she doesn’t want to talk about it but I’m here to listen. She probably would have told me all about it back then and I would have happily listened. But five years is a long time and neither of us can ignore what was between us before. Especially in light of why I went to see her.
“Why did you bring me here?” She asks me suddenly. It’s the first time she's asked me that so plainly, so honestly. I joked with her before when she mocked me but I couldn’t do that this time. I didn’t want to. My features soften for what comes next.
“I wish I could say I did it for you but the truth is: I did it for myself.” I tell her honestly. “You know I love telling stories. These past few years, I’ve told my stories to anyone who will listen. Stories of the past and stories of the present, whatever stories I have. But no matter who I told, it just wasn’t the same. They just…they didn’t listen the way you did. They didn’t hear me the way you did.” I shrug my shoulders and nod my head at her. I wish I could be clearer; I wish I could quantify what it was so I could find it in someone else. But I couldn’t.
“I brought you here so I could tell you my stories. Because here in this place.” I spread my arms out to the room around me. “This is where most of my stories come from now. This is where most of them lead. Where they’re born and written.” I smile kindly at her. In a way I haven’t smiled at anyone in too long.
“I brought you here for my sake. But if you have a story to tell, I’m here to listen. I love telling stories but I love hearing them too.” I gesture with my head to the seat she’s sitting in. “And I've heard a good amount from people struggling though life sitting right there where you are now.”
“Prepubescent teenagers you mean?” She means it to be sarcastic, to be snarky. But we both notice it lacks her usual edge. I shrug, smile at her.
“People.” I repeat. And it’s true. There’s been a lot of teenage stories, powerful stories, told to me from students sitting in that seat. But there’s been others too. Other co-workers. Parents. Stories of all kinds. I run my hand along the wood of the desk I’m sitting on, forgetting her for only a moment to remember all the things I’ve heard in this spot.
I hear her exhale.
“Well, it all started when…”
“Is that it?” She asks me as the story closes, slowly coming back to its beginning. “What a tease.” She complains. And I can see why. We’ll never know her whole story. We’ll never know what happened to her to bring her to him.
“I like it.” I say smiling and its true. “She could be anyone. They could be anyone.”
“Maybe even you?” She asks me. Her face spins and her grin turns Cheshire but it still doesn’t faze me. Because I know, because I already realized, perhaps as early as the very first story we shared.
“Yes.” I answer. But I look at him, put the thread in her hand and hold it. “And maybe even you.”