Small Lives



  SMALL LIVES

  Short Stories

  By Ola Eliwat

  The Well

  The Ball Maker

  The ordinary Life of Dalia G.

  Despicable Me

  Psycho

  A Mom's Deal

  The Autumn Visitor

  The Last Hanging

  In the Dark

  The Well

  She’s dying anyway…

  What harm would it do to tell her? Just this once, she’s not staying for long, few weeks and everything will be buried with her under wet soil: the pain, the shame, the guilt and the madness.

  I never shared my feelings with anyone. Every time I tried words won’t escape my mouth. I kept everything in a deep well I dug years ago somewhere inside. A bottomless well that got deeper and deeper over the years. I thought I was thus sparing my dignity, among other things. Little did I know I had built a steel shell around myself, not until it was too late.

  Ironically, it wasn’t until one sad afternoon that I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  “She's got rotten lungs", that was all my Mother needed to say for me to know that my cousin was dying.

  At first, the shock was enormous, but then I started to see a thin silver lining.

  "She’s dying… let her take your burden to the grave."

  I knew I should be ashamed of myself to think like that, but I was desperate, and shame was the least of my worries. I started rationalizing, encouraging myself to go ahead and get over with it… what’s better than sharing your deeply held secrets with a dying person?

  That night I couldn’t sleep; my blood was boiling with anticipation. Tomorrow I’ll be free. Free at last.

  The next day I made sure to go to the hospital at a time when there would be no visitors, just her and me. I entered the room wearing a shy smile, I knew she had such a good faith in me that she would believe I was faking the smile as not to cry upon seeing her in that condition. She would never knew I was trying to hide my shame behind that sheepish grin…

  I asked her how she was, and she went on and on about how good she’s feeling and how she’s feeling at peace with whatever fate awaited her. Meanwhile, I was thinking how to start telling her what I came for. But I didn’t need to think hard, because she did it for me.

  “Seems like you want to say something” she said suddenly, interrupting herself as she noticed that my mind was somewhere else.

  “Well… I don’t think it’s a good timing” I stammered, knowing it was the perfect time, at least for me.

  “Oh, for God's sake!” she moaned with a battered breath. “It’s not like we have much time left!”

  “Well… you asked for it” I said half jokingly.

  She shifted in her bed, inspecting me with eager eyes; as she has never seen me in such a confessional position. I fidgeted in my seat, avoiding locking eyes with her.

  “You know how I always said I had no secrets like other girls” I kicked it off. “Well, not exactly”

  -

  She smiled knowingly and nodded for me to continue.

  “You know I always preferred to keep it to myself, but now I feel that I can’t bear it anymore. It’s eating away at me” I paused, looking timidly at her. “Promise me you won’t think ill of me or judge me for anything I say”

  “I promise”. She said without so much as a blink.

  “Well…", I hesitated a moment. "This might look silly I know, but I’m in love”

  “That’s good for a start!” she said with a curt nod.

  “Well, that’s not all”, I started speaking rapidly as if not to hear what I was saying. “I was in love with my best friend’s fiancé. I was in love with him before I knew they were in a relationship. I never had the guts to tell her, I just choked it up, and it killed me. I listened to her when she talked about him. I gave her advice and helped them to make up whenever they had a fight. I even picked his gifts with her. It was eating me alive, and nobody knew”

  Her eyes softened with sincere empathy. “Then, what happened then?”

  “As I expected, they broke up. I must be ashamed to admit that a part of me was happy. No! Not only a part of me, I was happy. Actually, it was the happiest day in my life. I acted sorry while I was consoling her, but inside, I felt like dancing with joy. The worst of all is that I didn’t feel guilty, not at all. I knew they were so different, a total mismatch. I knew it, but I went so far as to think that he had something for me. How stupid! You know sometimes you want something badly that you think you feel it. Desire mistaken for hunch. How pathetic!”

  She smiled and waited for me to continue. I looked at her through the corner of my eye, and then blurted: “I never told you my bus driver tried to rape me when I was sixteen”

  She stared in silent awe.

  “Well, I don’t like to remember the details; it took me a good deal of time trying to get over it. Thank God I remembered my mother’s advice. Go for the eyes. Fortunately, I had my nails done that day, I almost took his eyeballs out” I grinned uneasily, and she giggled along, trying to soothe me into going on. “Worse yet is that he still drove me to and from school for the rest of the year”. I said coarsely.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  I readjusted myself on the cushioned chair. “I… I killed our neighbour’s son”

  Her eyes widened as she glared with shock, trying to mutter something but never finding the words.

  “He was 2 or 3 years old, and he…” I paused, fighting back the tears that started to stream down my face. “He was trying to get a cherry from the fruit bowl, so I helped him to some. It didn’t occur to me that he’d swallow the seed… it was too big for him. I didn’t know what to do, I ran for help, but it was too late.”

  She buried her face between her hands. And before she could ask any questions, I answered her unspoken question. “Nobody knew I gave him the cherry.” I gasped, looked her in the eye and cried out, “I didn’t mean to do it!”

  A heavy silence prevailed for a few minutes, then without uttering a single word, I stormed out of the room. That was the last time I saw her.

  For several days before she died, she had tried to call me and leave me messages that I would not care to check. Whenever my mom asked me why I didn’t visit her, I said I couldn’t bear to see her in that situation. After the funeral, I ran home as fast as I could, stormed into my room, buried my face in the pillow and wept for hours.

  Several days after that, I hesitantly picked up my phone, and with a trembling hand, I opened my messages, not knowing why I was doing it then. Maybe she wanted to tell me something. I hesitated for a moment. Finally, I opened the messages, one after another, all of them were brief, and said the same thing:

  “I was raped too. You never told me attacking the rapist’s eyes would save me”

  The Ball Maker

  My eyes followed the ball closely, waiting for it to tear into the net. I didn't really care who was to score, as long as the ball would settle in. Everyone was cheering loudly, but I almost couldn't hear any of their cheering, as all my senses were focused on that white ball getting kicked back and forth between the two ends of the playfield. To see it smeared with dirt like that and treated so savagely made me think of how many hours it took to get it stitched together, and wondered if it was one of mine.

  The small coffee shop where the village men gathered to watch football matches was a tiny room with yellow walls that smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. I called it the Den, although I can't remember how or when I came up with that name. I used to sneak there after work, since my mother wouldn't let me go, saying I was too young to go there. That was a year or so ago, when I used to attend school. My mother used to brag about me to her neighbors, saying I
would be a famous doctor one day, and that we will move out of this "desolate nondescript village" as she called it.

  Many nights when we were sitting in silence, while my sick father lay in his bed in the next room, my mother sewing in her chair and me hunched over my notebook, earnestly doing my homework, she would raise her eyes to look at me, but I never felt like she was really seeing me; for her smile and the sudden glitter in her eyes made her seem to me as if she were looking out to the ocean while effectively daydreaming of something more beautiful than I could ever imagine. Once, she said to me after a long spell of silence: "You know what, Maniram? You'll go to school, learn your lessons, and then you'll go to the best collage in India, where you'll study to be the best doctor in the country. You'll make lots of money, and once you do, we'll move out of this rotten cell and go live in Mumbai."

  My mother has always had very high expectations of me that I was afraid there was no question I would let her down. Each time I remembered my mother's dreamy gaze I would become keener to rise up to those expectations. For all I remember, my mother wanted me to be a doctor more than anything in the world; that's why I found it hard to understand how she could get herself to tell me I was to leave school.

  "Maniram" My mother said hesitantly, with her eyes drooping. "You know how much I want you to go to school and be a doctor." There was a long pause before she continued. "But, as you know, your father has grown very sick, and I can't afford the medicine anymore. My work is not paying even for half of it. I need your help."

  The very next morning my mother took me to see a man she called "the contractor". His office was located in an old building, and the office itself was a small gloomy room that reminded me of the coffee shop in some way. There, behind the desk, sat a man about my father's age, but much bulkier than he was, clinching a cigarette between his lips, under his heavy mustache. He took a look at me, studied my hands for a while, and then asked my mother a few questions I don't remember, mostly because I was busy trying to figure out the reason behind them. After that, he opened a notebook that was in front of him, took a pen in one hand and the cigarette from under his mustache in the other, then he let out a curt sigh and wrote something down..

  "Okay" He said after a brief pause. "Bring him in tomorrow. I hope he's a fast learner; I'm having much trouble with dense kids these days. They work half as fast and cost us twice the effort to teach them!"

  "Don't worry sir; my son is a very clever boy." My mom said, and then pressed her lips together as if to keep herself from saying any more. I imagine she had a pressing urge to tell him I was going to be a doctor someday, and that we'd move out of here forever, and that I wouldn't have to work for him anymore.

  The next day my mother took me to the factory in Meerut, where I was to start working. I was very nervous at first, but my tension was eased a great deal when I saw that there were many children my age. My mother got to her knees so her eyes would level with mine, looked me square in the face, and told me in an assuring tone that I would be all right. I suspected from her tone that she herself wasn't feeling that way, and the trembling of her lips when she kissed me confirmed my suspicion.

  In the factory, a man showed me what I was supposed to do. He then handed me pieces of rubber, leather and bundles of thread and needles. "The more balls you stitch together, the more money you make" He said as he bent down. "If you need to know anything, you can ask the other kids, but try not to bother them with too many questions as they also have work to do."

  I settled in my place on the floor, it was dirty and nowhere near comfortable. I began stitching while stealing glances at the boy next to me. I was trying to pour all my concentration into the work, having my sick father in mind and my mother's dreamy gaze before my eyes. For a moment, I even thought she was observing me from her chair. Hours went by and I still didn't finish my first ball. My vision began to blur, and my back ached from bending over, trying to work as fast as I could. When I couldn't bear the haziness and pain anymore, I let go of the needle and leaned my back against the wall. My eyes welled up with tears as I thought of how slow I was. It was at that moment when the boy next to me decided to start a conversation that soothed me a little. "Tired already?" He said half-jokingly. "Don't worry; it's always hard at first. But you seem to be doing well so far. You know, none of us could finish more than 2 balls a day."

  His words were somehow comforting; for I knew I wasn't a slow worker. But, for 3 rupees per football, I thought I was supposed to make 5 or 6 balls a day to say that the job was worth it.

  I continued going to the factory, stitching balls day in day out, and within one week I was able to produce 2 balls a day. Often when I finished a ball I would hold it up to the bars of light filtering through the small rectangular window at the top of the wall, and I would feel a great temptation to take it out on the street and kick it with all my might. I've always been fond of football; I used to play it with the neighborhood kids with balls made of worn out socks. But I knew then more than ever that there was no time for me to play with that ball, even though I made it myself. I often consoled myself by thinking that when I became a doctor I would buy one of these balls. I heard that they were being sold for what amounts to 100 rupees each.

  At that thought, I found myself starting to pick up speed, which caused me to prick my thumb with the needle, but I didn't make such a big deal of it; I only put the needle aside and sucked the blood from the small wound. I have taken to that kind of accidents by now; it was bound to happen as I always tried to work as fast as I could. The first time I pricked a finger I panicked, fearing it would grow septic. But by then my hands were studded with punctures, and with some of those punctures growing septic, my hands looked like a rusty sifter.

  The World Cup tournament started a few months after I'd started working in the factory. One evening after I was done for the day, I decided to sneak to the Den; for there's been much talk about the next game that seemed to be a very important one. To tell the truth, I didn't care to know who was playing, all I wanted to see was the ball rolling on the playfield; I could hardly believe the balls I was making would be juggled by the feet of world renowned players, and that all the eyes and cameras would be following it, waiting for it to rest in one of the nets. What I found most mind-boggling was that, after being kicked around and smeared with dirt, the ball was many times worth what it was when I first stitched it together and held it to the bars of light in pride. For some reason, this made me remember the needle pricks in my hands, and felt them starting to ache.

  I stayed in the Den for an hour or so, watching closely as people around me went fanatically on ranting and calling names. I didn't know what they were so angry about, and didn't even try to find out; being too busy counting the balls thrown in the field. I was surprised at the number of balls used in one match. If one ball flies out of the field, they throw in another one immediately, like it was nothing. This made me think of how many people and children my age were making footballs out there. I tried to do the math in my head all the way home, but I still couldn't figure it out.

  I went on my way thinking, unaware of the bustle around me; for it seemed the match had ended and the fans of both teams were celebrating and engaging in fights on the streets. As I reached the house, I opened the door as quietly as I could. Everything was as I left it in the morning. My mother was sewing in her chair, my father groaning in the next room, and the same heavy silence filling the place. Who said silence has no sound? Maybe we've just grown too familiar with it that it became very hard to distinguish.

  My mom didn't ask me anything, and just responded to my good night with a curt nod. I figured she didn't want to shatter the silence around, or she's just lost the desire to speak. I headed to my room with the same thought still spinning in my head. As I lay in my bed, I tried so hard to shut it out. In the past, I loved to stare at the ceiling and indulge in daydreams for a while before I finally gave in to sleep, but I stopped this habit ever since I started working in the fa
ctory. I was often too tired to think, but even when I had some energy left in me, I forced myself to sleep because all I could think of was worrying about what lay ahead of me the next day, and it never fell short of my expectations. But that night I couldn't block out that same pressing idea. I wondered what would become of me in the future, and how it would turn out to be.

  I can't remember when or how I fell asleep that night, maybe my brain was too exhausted at last from all those thoughts. All I can remember is that I closed my eyes, wishing with all my heart I would never have to wake up again.

  The Ordinary Life of Dalia G.

  Dalia G. has always been an ordinary girl, equally in life as in death. She had no exquisite beauty neither has she ever been an honour student. She didn’t have the wittiest sense of humour nor has she done anything that would make a good story for her children, had they ever materialized. Her biggest achievement was a college degree and, as most people, she spoke two languages, the second of which she has never been anywhere where she needed to use. Truly, Dalia G. was an ordinary girl in every sense of the word. Nonetheless, in her heart she always believed that something extraordinary was in store for her.

  Every morning, Dalia would wake up at the same time, dress up in the same drab colors of her uniform and take the same route to her workplace. Occasionally, this daily routine would be broken by a flat tire or a malfunctioning gear. But all in all, Dalia loved the commute. She like to dodge her way through the heavy traffic of the city, switching gracefully between lanes and coming to a slow stop at the traffic lights, leaving the drivers behind her in a horn-honking frenzy as she never crossed a yellow light. Yet, the thing she enjoyed the most was the way the car jerked as she lifted her foot slowly of the clutch before touching down on the fuel pedal, one reason why she never used an automatic car. Her car, Dulcinea, was a poorly maintained 1989 Datsun. Yet in her mind she managed to convince herself that she was driving a finely restored 1967 Mustang.

  Every morning as a part of her daily routine she would grab the newspaper on her way to work from a nearby supermarket in which worked a middle-aged man whose genuine smile gave her a certain assuredness. She loved the familiarity of his face as she dropped by to exchange the same morning greetings and buy the same newspaper for 7 years.

 

  That was pretty much the life of Dalia, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to make a good piece of news to share with her mother when she got home. She knew that her mother, like most mothers, always waited for her to come home with some happy shy news of a potential suitor, especially that her father had passed away several years ago and all her sisters and brothers were going about their lives, each having a family to keep them busy. Dalia wanted to make her mother happy, but she wouldn’t take any chances for that matter; because although life was getting tough for her, she resented the idea of committing her life to someone just because she’s tired of it.

  Several years passed like this. The last time she had a change in her daily agenda occurred one rainy Tuesday afternoon a few weeks before her 31st birthday. It was the dullest thing ever; she was stuck at work with the heating system down, all cuddled up in her wool coat, breathing in and out through the old coarse threads. She was bored out of her mind, there wasn’t much work to do and she’d been observing the downpour from the window for a while. She had already read the newspaper, but she thought that she’d take another look anyway, and that was when she found it. It was a column somewhere in the middle, for someone who called himself A.F. From then on, that unexpected change of routine became part of the routine itself.

  Every morning since that afternoon she would grab the paper and go directly for the column. She would fix herself a nice cup of coffee to go along with it. Many times she wondered about that person. The way he wrote, the things he talked about and all the tiny details made her feel like she knew him. Sometimes she would imagine herself sitting across from him, sipping coffee and discussing whatever the article was about. She even laughed and frowned at times when no one was around, but every now and then someone would catch her talking to herself. She would shun the embarrassment by pretending she was doing the math for something or trying to pronounce a strange client’s name.

  One of those days as she was doing the mandatory task of checking her email, the one she wished she could cancel along with her cell phone and go live on an exotic island, she had no idea that this very mundane task would lead her where she’s never gone before, and change that way came. Just as she was typing in a reply to one of her most annoying clients, she figured it would help if she imagined herself typing in an intellectual argument in reply to someone interesting. It didn’t take her imagination much effort to fill in the blank with a name. All of a sudden she found herself grabbing the newspaper looking for any email address through which she might be able to contact that who has become her main imaginary discussion mate. Luckily, like most columnists A.F always left an email address at the bottom of the article, which was never noticed by Dalia as she used to block out anything that is technology related when she read the paper.

  She started typing eagerly, taking some time figuring out how to start and deleting the first line several times before settling on an opening statement. After getting past that awkward beginning, the ideas literally flowed. She felt so comfortable expressing herself without any fear or hesitation. However, the hesitation kicked in as she moved the cursor to the “Send” button, her finger tapping on the left mouse button a few times before finally pressing down on it. Message sent.

  The waiting for a reply started the very moment she sent the message. For the first time in her life she actually felt excited to check her e-mail. To her disappointment, there was nothing of the sort in the inbox. She checked the junk mail folder, and checked the sent items time and again to make sure she typed in the right email address, all to no avail. Few weeks of the same, she started to induce a sense of despair to reduce the mounting feeling of disappointment. It wasn’t only about failing to make contact with that person; it was about having to go back to the dullness of her daily eventless life.

  Just as she was losing all hope, something happened that suggested she shouldn’t. The reply came in early one fine Thursday morning, first apologizing for the delay and then appreciating the smart observations and arguments included in the first message. Overwhelmed with excitement, it took Dalia a few minutes to compose herself and organize her thoughts as to what her reply should be. She wrote with the same excitement with which she wrote the first message, the only difference is that this time she didn’t have to wait long for the reply.

  Those e-mails have become an inseparable part of her daily life. They even started to take the place of the daily skimming through the newspaper and acquired a higher importance than that of her morning coffee. Something surreal was happening. It was unbelievable what they had in common and how they seemed to be stealing each other’s mind. She has never believed in soul mates until then. At last, the long wait for the extraordinary has come to an end.

  They proceeded this way, anonymous and happy, until one only normal request changed it all. “I want to meet you in person.” As simple as that line sounded, the impact on her was gigantic. All of a sudden everything turned gray, the world seemed like a low-quality horror movie. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating like an African drum and her forehead breaking out in cold sweat. She didn’t consider or even give herself a chance to do so. She closed the browser window and walked as far away from the computer as she could, trying desperately to gather her thoughts and think clearly.

  For the rest of the day, Dalia couldn’t get her mind to think of something else. It’s very hard to think of anything when you’re trying not to think of something in particular. She decided that the best thing to do is to take a leave from work since she couldn’t get any work done anyway. As she left the building, she walked to her car unconsciously and regained awareness only as she was turning the key in the door lock. At that, she took the key o
ut and decided to take a short walk in an attempt to neutralize all the puzzled emotions raging inside.

  One thought led to another, nothing soothing, nothing to give her the peace of mind she sought. But at last, it hit her. The only thing that could end that ambivalence was resorting to her own world, her own techniques. She began picturing the opposite situation. She saw herself meeting up with him, a tall handsome man with hazel eyes, olive toned skin and a most charming smile. Once again they were talking and talking, and she was happy. She was happy again. Just then, it all came crashing on her, and for the first time in her life she realized that she’s the one who wanted her life to be nothing but ordinary, chickening out when it came to any change or anything out of the usual old box.

  Curiously enough, that wasn’t the thought that gripped her. In fact, she didn’t really mind it. So, rather than mourning her blown chances to happiness, she was taken by a whole other realization.

  The thing no one knew about Dalia, and the thing she hadn’t realized until that moment, is that she had an imagination capable of turning the most mundane details of her life into a once in a lifetime extravaganza. She started to remember everything, from the extraordinary pleasure of manipulating the clutch in her car to her dreams of being thrown by the waves into a deserted island. It occurred to her just at that moment that the life she's always wanted has always existed in her head, and that was the only place where she wanted to live such a life. She began contemplating the possibilities that could come out of that. She started visualizing everything she's ever dreamed of, every single detail, and there she started to lay out the lines for a best seller novel, or perhaps a movie. She got so excited that she lost track of time and had no sense of her surroundings. She kept walking while visualizing and creating dialogues in her head. Everything was coming along nicely, until it all erupted in one major flash of light.

  Dalia couldn't see what exactly had hit her. Was it a car or a bus, she had no idea, and there was no telling what happened next to her as she bid the world farewell. Eye witnesses to the accident confirmed that the driver wasn't to be blamed, since Dalia was the one who came out of nowhere and crossed the street without looking in any direction. Thus, the accident didn't make the news, and her death didn't provoke any outrage against reckless drivers or driving laws. A small funeral was held to put her where she would lie for a while. Her family and friends mourned for a few days before going back each to his life, and the page was turned on Dalia, an ordinary girl, who lived an extraordinary life, only in her mind.

  Despicable Me

  “Starting the day with parking in the handicapped space” He thought to himself as he parked the car. “Let’s see how lower I can get”

  He got off sluggishly, kicked the door shut with the heel of his foot, and walked into the building. He had no idea why he chose this building in particular; he didn’t give it much thought. He was following some vague impulse, something he often did, more than he was willing to admit.

  As he waited for the elevator, he contemplated the height of the building from inside. It looked like an endless spiral, which gave him the chills. He jumped into the elevator as soon as the door opened, but just as he was pressing the button to that certain floor, a voice that sounded like a blend of femininity and authority crashed down on him, demanding that he stop the elevator.

  He took a step back away from the button pad. She hopped in swiftly and pressed the button to the third floor. It couldn’t take him more than a glance to notice that she was a beautiful, elegant lady with an air of confidence. She also looked like a successful business woman with the brief case she was holding and the busy look on her face. In short, he could tell with one look that she was out of his league. But who cares anyway? He thought. After all she’s just a woman he will share an elevator with probably for less than a minute without uttering a single word and then they will go their separate ways and most probably they’ll never see each other again or learn each other’s names.

  But few seconds after the elevator started to lift; it jolted violently and came to a complete halt. They looked at each other perplexed. They waited for a few seconds then she said: “I hope this is a joke!”

  A bad joke, he thought, but it wasn’t anyway. The elevator had stopped and even when he tried to insert his hand into the slit between the two sides of the sliding door there was no point in opening it because the elevator had stopped between two floors. Here, without turning to look at her he just said: “Well, it seems like we’re stuck”.

  “Whoa… I can’t be stuck!” the woman said with a pitch that sounded as if she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She fished a cell phone out of her briefcase and dialed a number.

  “What? 20 minutes? No, you don’t understand, I have a meeting in 5 minutes, I can’t wait 20 minutes!”

  She ended the call with a polite swearword, which made her look all the more feminine and made him think it maybe his lucky day, not hers however. He shook the thought off and busied himself with his keychain.

  “A Toyota?” She said out of the blue. “So you’re the jerk parked in the handicapped space!”

  He smirked.

  “I’m wearing 10 centimeter heels and yet I don’t give myself permission to take up a handicapped space.”

  He smirked again. She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “I mean, what is so important that you couldn’t wait to find another legitimate parking space?”

  “Nothing.” He answered with utter indifference. “I’m just a jerk like that”

  She wasn’t convinced. She kept looking at him as if waiting for an answer.

  “I mean it.” He insisted. “I wasn’t going anywhere” He thought she didn’t have the right to know. “Lying and then rationalizing to feel good about lying, that’s a new low I’ve hit today” He thought to himself.

  “Then why did you take the elevator?’ She challenged.

  “No reason, I just let my feet take me wherever they pleased”

  “Well, unless your brain is in your feet, which doesn’t sound very far-fetched in your case, then your feet can’t take you anywhere.” She shook her head in dismay. “That’s the problem with most people, you don’t know where you’re going and when your life comes down crumbling you start whining unable to take responsibility for your actions, or lack thereof.”

  “What can I say? Some people were just born to be losers” He said with no sarcasm in his voice

  “Nobody is born to be a loser!” She fired back with full authority. “Look at yourself. What are you, 30? 40? You look healthy, and you certainly have some thinking abilities, whether you choose to capitalize on them or not is another issue, but tell me: How do you even have the nerve to call yourself a loser?”

  “I don’t know” He replied carelessly. “Perhaps the fact that I have no problem being stuck in an elevator because there’s no place I need to be at and nothing I need to do and nobody waiting for me outside these walls. Believe me, even if I died here I doubt that anyone would notice my absence”

  “That’s just so screwed up!” She said with a hint of compassion this time. “I mean, it’s too bad to be true. There must be someone out there, what about your parents? Family? A wife, maybe?”

  “I have been nothing of series of disappointments to my parents.” He answered as if talking to himself, his voice almost void of emotion. “And no wife, because what woman in her right mind would take this kind of risk?” He paused for a moment. “Actually there was this one woman who liked me, but I had no interest in her, maybe just because I knew that she liked me. I had to be cold and indifferent towards her so she could get the message, and that hurt her. It hurt her bad. But it’s the only way I know. And I’m such a jerk that I don’t even feel guilty about it”

  “You don’t have to feel guilty about it” She almost interrupted him. “Just like you might like a woman and she won’t like you back another woman will like you and you won’t think that she’s the one for you. It happens with everyone and ther
e’s no reason to feel guilty about it.” She paused for a moment then said on what seemed like a second thought, “Of course you could always feel stupid because you pushed away someone who could’ve made your life a whole lot less miserable, but not guilty, no”

  “You mean this happened to you?” He asked with fake curiosity as to pull her leg.

  “It happens to everyone” She answered as briefly and vaguely as possible, trying to drop the question.

  “But…” He hesitated for a moment. “You don’t seem like someone anyone wouldn’t be interested in”

  “Well” She answered with a slight cockiness. “People like, or don’t like, other people for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they are the stupidest of reasons but reasons nonetheless. Or sometimes because you’re so stupid as to like the wrong person. But anyway, I’m not looking for anyone to make my life better.”

  “Neither do I.” He said confidently. “Simply because I don’t think anyone can make my life less miserable” He said with a dramatic turn.

  “That’s the spirit!” She yelled. “Of course not! You can’t wait for someone to make your life better, you just have to take matters into your own hands”

  “This is not what I meant. You don’t know the first thing about me, I’m a bad person”

  “No you’re not!” She laughed. “No bad person would admit they are bad. They would rationalize everything they do and give themselves excuses. Admitting you’re bad means you’re actually trying to be good but perhaps need a little guidance”

  “You may be right, but it’s too late for me”

  She looked him square in the face, he could see her thoughts spiraling like a swirl of dust that would soon turn into a tornado that would take him by surprise at any moment, and they did as she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Do you know where I was going? I bet you thought I was some business woman who had a big meeting to close a six-figure deal. Well, if that’s what you thought then you’re sadly mistaken. I have an appointment with a realtor. I’m selling my house, my share of my father’s inheritance. You know why? Because I started a project and it failed miserably and I’m up to my ears in debt.”

  He didn’t say anything, he just listened with shock.

  “You know why I did that? That project I mean.” She asked without waiting for an answer. “Because all my life I wanted everything I do to be meaningful. I wanted to set an example for people, to teach them a lesson! You know, people with little to zero ambition, or those people who would invent obstacles to convince themselves they can’t do any better in life. People like you! People who tell me all the time that I’m being rash or silly or delusional. I’ve lost some rounds but I’ve won many rounds too. This one was a biggie, though. I ended up flat broke! But you know what the crazy thing is? I don’t regret it, and I still want to do it my way!”

  He smiled as he noticed how her face brightened up. He realized he hadn’t smiled like this in years.

  “Look at me, I’m a 35 year-old single bankrupt woman with people watching my every move waiting for me to fail and I still believe I can do something will teach the world a lesson! Heck, I defy the basic theories of human psychology!”

  He looked at her with admiration as silence prevailed for a moment until he broke it in a most unexpected way.

  “I lied. I knew where I was going. I was going to the roof. I wanted to jump off it and kill myself."

  Her eyes widened. She waited for him to break into laughter or anything that indicates it was a joke, but he didn’t. The question then flowed out effortlessly: “And now what?”

  But he didn’t have the time to answer. The elevator jolted again and started to move, then the door was opened to reveal apologetic maintenance workers. The elevator was on the first floor now, so they asked her where she wanted to go as to press the right buttons. She said she was going to the third floor. Then they asked him where he was going. They exchanged a weird inquisitive look, and just before the door closed again he said with his eyes fixed on hers:

  “I was going down to the ground floor”