He says

“Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.”
   -Wallace stevens




He says insulting words and walks off as though he were a celebrity, a movie star walking upon a red carpet and not a writer who managed to sell books but did not really manage to attain a soul in the process of producing words that sell. 

“Don’t go “, warned her a stranger she had told she is about to go to an event , an evening  of philosophy and , there he was, right after midnight and three lectures later,  sitting comfortable always those dark eyes full of sorrow and comfort , comfort that there is a path out of sorrow through words. 

Predictable, she thought, these are the thoughts that enter her mind, she seems to need to be near him, but every time she does come close to him, there is nothing more that a dismissal and a feeling that the border is closed and that there is no way he will ever get closer to her, the closest she could ever come is to watch him and see him react , his small movements speak of a person who is calm and not easily upset or disturbed. He is comfortable. He will never have worries. A hefty inheritance of a prestigious family status, books that mean nothing , words that say nothing and those eyes that send a message of depth that does not exist. 

He wrote several books but she could read none of them. The words she also spoke somehow came together in ways that did not make sense. Nothing made sense nowadays and now she has given up the hope of writing, publishing, becoming SOMEONE like him, the way he became someone but if we are to compare the two, it is clear that the stability he has, like a cat that can sit anywhere in the room, is the opposite of the uncomfortable anxiety that has plagued her ever since she could  remember herself. 

A book could be a bridge from the chaos of thoughts towards some sort of meaning but she never could understand any book he had written, why he had described the characters and what he wanted to say were never clear and yet she had gone to him to learn how to write and now , as she sits and watches him speak, it is nearly midnight and after he talks, his friend and partner will speak and then they will go off with the third writer to drink by themselves, gods from the Greek temple, they will sit separate by a sky that will seem invisible to others but will feel very real to her.

Regretting every minute she had spent hoping that he will notice her writing and offer to help her edit, write , anything ,but his deep brown eyes only said nothing and there was nothing to read in his eyes, he did not care about her writing, he only cared about himself constantly sharing with the members of the writing group every event in his life that had upset him, the fear of dogs , an ill child, and she knew  with absolute certainly that was so rare in her turbulent life that he would never listen to one word if she were to take a risk and share anything personal.

Don’t share, don’t attempt to befriend ,these people are not your friends and he is the least likely to befriend of all of them. How foolish she had been to think she was his equal, and how could she not had seen it coming ? The closed door , the arrogant walk in and out of the room and her always having to settle for a few words tossed at her like an insignificant hunting dog, here , fetch this, get me this, because HE was important, he was the lord of the mansion and she was the servant although she had paid for his services, she paid but she served while he ruled over the writing class like an emperor , and she had recalled a poem by Wallace Stevens about the emperor of ice cream and he was ice cold ice creamy and distant as lands she will never visit because she could not do everything and just breathing hurt and just thinking how to place one foot in front of the other proved difficult enough.

This was the end, the last time she would see him and if by chance she would run into him she would pretend not to know him or if truth be told she will stop pretending she knows him because he never knew anything about her, not really, and she , she thought he was somebody else, someone who cared about what it felt like to want someone to say you can write and tell you how good you are when you think you suck.


About seagullsea

a seagull flying over the great ocean of life observing.
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