where I find myself constantly walking around
in the daytime, and falling in at night.
I miss you like hell.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
Quinn
Each day we compose life in stories we tell ourselves, at least, that’s how it seems to me.
And maybe that why I became a writer, or word whisperer, as Quinn Evans calls me.
Quinn and I met in graduate school when I was considering a career at university, but that’s also the time I caught a break and had my first novel published. I put my academic plans on hold to see where my art would take me, but as they say, way leads on to way and now I don’t know if I can resume the pursuit or even still want to try.
And that's the problem with time. We reinvent ourselves each day that goes by. It’s been three years out of those hallowed halls and I’m not certain I’ll ever darken them again.
But there is one dream I want to pursue but it’s not my choice to make—I’m talking about Quinn who feels I deserted her back at Victoria College.
I admit I could have been more up-front and involved her in some of my decision making, but my head got turned around by the prospect of fame, and well, the rest is bad history.
Quinn’s still part of our gang but definitely on the fringes—our only connection Rosie Travers, our long-suffering mutual friend who’s caught in the middle of our battle.
I want a truce, but Quinn’s not ready to bury the hatchet. I wonder why.
But I think I probably know the answer.
And yes, I know the question too and like Prufrock follow its tedious argument of insidious intent that leads to an overwhelming question…
I don't ask what it is, but I do make these monthly visits.
Okay, I want to cry out, enough of allusions, but I’m haunted by the lyrics of a Michel Legrande song, What Are You Doing for the Rest of Your Life—well, that and a mysterious shadowy girl who appears in my dreams, disturbs my sleep makes me wonder if I’m sane.
Is my life going well? Yeah, not exactly great.
But apart from this, I'm carrying on, stiff upper lip and all, and once or twice a month I get to actually live when the gang gets together at Sweetwaters for drinks and to reminiscence.
These bi-monthly visits are my sole contact with Quinn and occasionally, she bails because of work or some other commitment and my life gets even more miserable.
But tonight, I get both truth and its consequence. The gang’s meeting at eight for drinks and Rosie has already dropped news that Quinn will be there.
And as I learned from bitter experience, I can be in my truth and still be tormented by lack…
and Quinn is proof of that.
I show up a few minutes before eight and see Quinn has already arrived. I breathe a sigh of relief—I know—I’m pathetic, but predictable and most likely co-dependent.
We all greet each other with hugs—Quinn too, but not overly affectionate, then, I spend the next hour talking in turns to various friends to catch up, eventually turning to Quinn, the real purpose of my visit.
“So Liam,” she says with a smirk, “how’s the writer’s life?”
“I could complain about the working conditions,” I deadpan.
“But don’t you work from home?” She teases.
“More like a table at the local Tim Horton’s. I guess I miss the socialization. Writing can be very solitary.”
She nods and sips at her cab sav and avoids stating the obvious, but I told you so hangs in the air like a cartoon balloon mocking me.
“How are things at the college? Have you made assistant chair yet?”
“Who me?” She scoffs, “As if I’d even consider that—way too political for my tastes. No, I’m happy in my Victorian fantasies. I have to remind myself occasionally we’re in the 21st century.”
“I suppose we are,” I commiserate, “It’s hard to sign an e-book, assuming anyone would still want to decode marks on a screen rather than wait for the movie.”
“Is there a movie? Is Make it Dark being made into a film?”
I shake my head. “Naw, I’m holding out for Tom Cruise to play the lead, but I’ll settle for William Shatner.”
We both laugh and I feel a pang of longing, seeing the way her nose crinkles when she smiles the way it always did when we were together.
She glances at her watch and her face grows sad, “Sorry, Liam—I’ve got to go—I have an early department meeting. It was nice seeing you though and catching up—we’ll continue this next time I see you.”
I feign unconcern and assure her I understand—which I don’t, but walk her out to her car and watch until she’s safely in. Then I wave… a bleak smile plastered onto my face while I linger, watching her tail lights fade into the rain.
What’s the sound of one hand clapping? Probably, the same as me lying in bed nights talking to her image on the ceiling…as I said before, pathetic, desolate as my life and signifying nothing.