A few drinks later, I managed to take my mind off of everything, and talk about menial things, like work, life and music. Mentioning my sudden interest in playing the guitar, they were extremely excited to hear me play, followed by swift disappointment when I told them I wouldn’t be anywhere near good to perform for months.
“Just gotta practice, right?” Claire said.
“I suppose, yeah,” I said. “It still takes time, though.”
“Not for you, it doesn’t! Didn’t you play the piano before?” she said.
“I did, yes,” I said.
“There you go, you’re special! I love you, and I believe in you, and you can do this, and you better bring the thing over before we all go on vacation for the summer,” she said.
“I don’t know where I’ll be in six months,” I said, before remembering I had to stay cryptic. Fucking beer-soaked filters.
“What do you mean?” she said. “Girl, something’s very wrong with you.”
“No shit,” I said. “I have an operation every fucking October, and I almost died two months ago. Obviously I’m not quite alright.”
“Yeah, alright. Party-pooping bitch,” she said.
“I’m sorry, OK?” I said. “I never wanted any of it to happen. I never wanted to be near-terminally ill.”
“I still love you, though,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, managing to eek out a smile.
“We should all probably go home, it’s late and we need to sleep if we’re to be presentable for our families,” Claire said, to approval from all sides of the bar table.
“Merry Christmas, Jordan,” she said and pulled me in for a hug.
“Merry Christmas, Claire,” I said, putting my hands on her back.
“Have a good one, alright? You need it more than all of us combined,” she said.
“Thanks, you too,” I said, and having said my goodbyes with the rest, I turned around in search of a train that would take me home.
It was something I hadn’t thought about for a while, but it was so long since anyone had given me a hug. Ever since that failed one-night stand, I was starving for affection, and it really showed, as my mind decided to focus on the warmth emanating from every single pore of my body. For a brief moment there, I almost felt content.
That night, I dreamed of Aaron again. But we weren’t talking, and he didn’t call himself the thing I’m missing. Instead, words were meaningless, and all there was to think about was the soft blanket we had on our customary grassy hill, and the warmth of his body as I made him my pillow, nuzzling more and more into him.
My head on his chest, I thought about life, and how little sense it made without love, before waking up in tears, wishing he was in my bed, not wanting to ever wake up from a dream about him again. Maybe it was just a dream, but I didn’t care. It was a better place than the world, anyway.
The weekend passed me by quickly, as there was little to do besides think about Monday, and the guitar came in handy to distract me from the inevitable truth that I don’t know a single thing about him, and that I was stumbling around in the dark.
Monday brought little fruit to the pursuit, as I spent another hour under the drug, and he still wasn’t there. Yes, it was two days before Christmas, and he was unlikely to be there, but anything helped. If I could, I would be under the drug permanently and wait him out. After all, he was also ill. If he was still alive, he would have to go back under some day, and I would be there, and he would finally be mine.
It was not to be, however, and I spent the ostensible hour introducing a second guitar to my composition, and listening to their perfect interplay, like two lovers who’d spent so long together that they were not only completing each other’s sentences, but anticipating them. I wanted something like that out of my life. It was perfect, and all of it was in my mind, hiding away, deep in the subconscious.
Having woken up again, the Alexanders were courteous enough to offer me copious amounts of coffee, and we sat down, around the same table I was half-naked on mere minutes earlier, to discuss what next.
“By now, I’m highly certain that he isn’t just a figment of your own imagination. Assuming he is real, I don’t think we can find him other than by sheer luck,” Colin said. “Maths is ruthless like that. We can’t keep you under forever, so we’ll have to be strategic. Come back on January 17th, in other words, three months after your procedure. If he’s on a four-per-year cycle, which is possible with serious defects, he’ll be there. How’s that?”
“Sounds alright to me,” I said. “I can distract myself until then.” I’ve waited for a year and then some. I could wait three weeks longer.
Having finished our coffee in good spirits, talking about family and the holidays, I looked at them, and how they would anticipate each other’s sentences. They had known each other for so long that it seemed inevitable, I thought. The perfect couple. Just like the two guitars prodding their way through the thought subspace, if it was something like a subspace.
Still, spending an hour and feeling more under the drug was a tasking experience, and I stumbled my way home, and packed for the trip back up North. Having gone to the train by sheer muscle memory, and as soon as I’d found my seat, I passed out into sweet dreamless sleep. Arriving at my destination refreshed after skipping the long hours of the ride, I walked my way to my parents’ house, through the streets I’d forgot to think nice things about, and rang the bell.
My father opened the door, and upon seeing the frame of his daughter, smiled as wide as the river would. “Jordan!” But when I raised my face to give him a hug, his smile froze, and he seemed to almost look through me. “You look dreadful.”
