After an indulgent weekend rest, I’m beginning to make some headway with short stories. It’s starting to seem like there are some broad categories of tale. Many are symbolic and first person. The following tiny attempt at something is based on the style of some of Haruki Murakami’s short stories.
One Wednesday I went looking for love. I’ve no idea why that particular day made a search seem necessary. Usually I’d dismiss such an undertaking as a foolhardy waste of time and effort. But that day it seemed possible I might find something resembling love at least. I didn’t have a rational hope in my mind or blind faith in my heart; just the sense that I might glimpse something if I took time out to look for it. And an overwhelming need to stop for a moment.
Perhaps it was the way the sun fell in dusty rays on my pillow. Or, in fact, not my pillow at all, but the forever vacant one next to it. The way the feathery grains wafted over the empty, unruffled fabric. The way they swirled upwards in a golden bliss. The way they danced with their infinite, weightless friends. The very fact that I could see them, rather than a face cloaked in sleep or a sprawling arm, highlighted my loneliness.
Outside my gloomy bubble, the sun smiled and everything was right in the world. The worker ants dashed about bathed in optimism. Something told me that it was going to be a good day, if only I was sure to stand in the middle of it. I could hardly lie in bed, daydreaming of aimless floating, when the grass was so green and the sky so blue. I had to get up and look.
I threw the window open and rushed about my flat in an inexplicable, excitable daze. Wednesday, some people said, was a hump day, from which the downward slide to the weekend began. It was the beginning of the descent from monotony to freedom and relaxation. My working hours were sporadic, but it just so happened I had to be somewhere for one o’clock. I might have finished looking by then; I might not.
Whole water droplets, untouched by the deadly stab of a towel, quivered in the chill from the window as I pulled on some clothes. I was out the door early, way before the rising sun had climbed above the clustered buildings of my road. I travelled light, reasoning that love could do without any extra baggage. Even my watch, which I regarded practically as a vital organ, lay forgotten about somewhere near the bed. My cavernous empty bed.
At first I simply walked. Up streets, down alleys, across roads. My creased, hastily buttoned shirt billowed around my waist like a skirt in the wind. I drew glances from passersby and tore past determined commuters. Rounding a corner onto a key London artery, I recoiled like a vampire in the harsh, all consuming stare of a fierce mid-morning sun, focused like a laser between two squashed buildings into my eyes. I felt them roll back in their sockets, suddenly burning with the vibrancy of it all. I staggered to a nearby wall, colliding with an irate businesswoman, greedily sucking hasty gulps from a cigarette, discarded yards later. I caught my breath.
Where best to stand for a fleeting glance of love? Where was the pivot, the enlightening epicentre of this shiny, beguiling day? Panting against my grimy patch of wall, I spied a gargantuan bookstore and made my way inside. Calmer now amongst the scent and flicker of turned pages, I allowed the dream of a likeminded, slender hand reaching out for the same book to grow in my mind’s eye. Browsing here today I would find love, I thought.
It didn’t happen. And neither did it happen at the cinema, where I lingered about the foyer, peering round pillars for the elusive moment. Hopes were raised and dashed by beautiful women scanning my favourite poetry or chatting noisily about a film I wanted to see. One o’clock came and went. It’s funny but I never once seriously considered approaching any of them. I think deep down I disliked the notion wheeled out by some, so called, “romantic” men, that it was possible to fall repeatedly in love with numerous women from the most meagre meetings. Inexperienced I may be but I’d formed my own ideas of love.
I didn’t go in for this chance encounter, novelistic crap. If I’d known anything like real love it was born first out of friendship. It surely couldn’t blossom just like that, in a single moment in all its complexities, between utter strangers; could it? So I gave up hope and set off home; trudging forlornly without any of the energy or automatic spring to my step I had left with that Wednesday morning, cursing such a total waste of such precious time. I began rehearsing the pointless phone call to work, explaining my absence.
But near the station I saw a record store, the type that was the domain of collectors and enthusiasts. I found myself wandering in. Subconsciously at least I clearly wanted one last throw of the dice, even when I knew things didn’t work like that. It didn’t take long for regret to wash over me on stepping inside. I felt almost instantly conspicuous, an agent behind enemy lines with their cover about to be blown. It wasn’t that I disliked music. I simply knew nothing about the dusty vintage jazz or limited edition punk littering this place. And I despised any form of artistic snobbery. Glancing at the other customers I could tell most of them did it for superiority, for bragging rights rather than passion.
Except one couple that is. Only they weren’t a couple, exactly. He was rifling through boxes of records, almost in a frenzy, whilst she leafed through the odd selection, drifting quietly just behind him. I felt myself instinctively drawn to them. They were fascinating. Though standing so close, it was clear they were not together. And yet it seemed as if they would be; they ought to be.
It felt too cliché to be real. Both were absorbed in their browsing, their mutual passion evident despite their completely contrasting methods and expressions. Both backed gradually towards each other, their gazes locked intently on the records. Then as he made an erratic eureka lunge for a treasured collectable, there was the inevitable clash and she dropped her own prize.
After endless seconds of token British apologies and awkward eye contact, they both shared a kind, selfless smile for a snapshot of a moment. It was a smile that said they knew each other, and had done for years. And yet it was also a smile of discovery, of innocence and renewal. I had watched the whole unremarkable incident. They left the shop separately. As far as I know nothing came of it, not that I chased the matter up. But it made me feel as if I’d seen love; if only a rough edge of what its purity could be.
I don’t know if I was in my right mind that Wednesday. Most would probably say I wasn’t, given the circumstances. Back then the operation seemed a long way off, but it was still an ever present, looming reality. Now I only have hours to wait. I think of that weird Wednesday and my sudden compulsion to search for love. I remember it as I try to bring myself to trust absolute strangers with everything I have. I cling to it in case anything should go wrong and I am left with a brief window of time to properly fall in love, and be loved in return.