The Contradiction of Solitude

by A. Meredith Walters

  I quickly turned the page. Those stories had their time and place. The Lion and the Rose Bookshop was not it.

  But there were other words that I could write. Words that were safe out in the open.

  Wings flutter madly,

  Up, up, up.

  Delicate legs tangled,

  Taste and touch divine.

  Happy.

  Found.

  Home.

  One day is all he’s given.

  Twisted and writhing,

  It’s over.

  Decimated and dying—

  It’s gone.

  Ruined before it had the chance,

  To live.

  “Are you a writer?” I glanced up, annoyed at the intrusion.

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  Words were precious. This man with dyed black hair and trendy glasses didn’t deserve them.

  I noticed that he wore his carefully scuffed Converse sneakers untied and that bothered me.

  You couldn’t trust a person who couldn’t make the commitment to tie their shoes before they left the house.

  “I’m Trevor,” he said, and I shrugged, uninterested.

  Go away…

  He had no purpose for me. I had found it in a pair of dancing green eyes.

  I closed my notebook, smoothing my hand down the green cover, and slid it under the counter, out of sight. Away from ugly blue eyes that shouldn’t be looking at me at all.

  I stared back at Trevor, giving him nothing.

  Nothing…

  I made him uncomfortable. I knew the look on his face well. His flirty smirk disappeared and was soon replaced with confused embarrassment.

  “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you speak?” he asked a little angrily.

  I crossed my arms over the counter and leaned in a fraction. I could smile but I didn’t. I wouldn’t give him that.

  Smile, Layna, then people will love you.

  Trevor relaxed a bit. I lulled him with my body language. My eyes that met his. I angled towards him, tilting my head. Long hair brushing his hand. His pupils dilated. His breathing became shallow.

  He lusted.

  He wanted.

  It was so easy to deceive, to pretend, to lie, behind the perfect mask of a smile. The slight movement of a hand. The falsehood of tears.

  “I can speak, Trevor. But I usually wait until there’s someone worth talking to,” I replied. My voice wasn’t cold or angry. It was blandly neutral. I was only stating fact.

  Trevor’s mortification was apparent and I heard him mutter “bitch” under his breath before walking out of the bookstore.

  Bitch.

  Was I a bitch for only telling him the truth? For not sparing a stranger’s feelings?

  Maybe.

  But I didn’t want people to love me.

  I was beyond love.

  Smile, Layna, then people will love you.

  My mother’s advice had made me hate her. As though the opinions of others should matter more than my own.

  I spent my life alone. My social skills nonexistent after years of denying myself true interaction. Nurture as opposed to nature.

  Or so I hoped.

  Or so I feared.

  I was alone…

  Until I found someone worth the effort.

  Then I would hand over just the tiniest, most important pieces of me. Just enough to make it count.

  It was survival at its finest.

  “I’m getting fucking sick of Denny’s, man. You know there are other places to eat, right?” my buddy Tate complained, pushing his pancakes around on his plate.

  I had been coming to Denny’s almost every day for years. It was a strange sort of ritual that I couldn’t break.

  “Then stop coming with me,” I told him, rolling my eyes.

  “And have you sit by yourself like the sad sack that you are? I can’t have that on my conscience,” Tate laughed, shoving the food into his mouth. He was so full of shit. He just wanted the free meal.

  “Shut up and eat your food,” I muttered, laughing. I dipped a seasoned fry into the ranch dressing, completely submerging it. Then I took my spoon and fished it out, slurping the contents into my mouth.

  “That is really fucking foul, dude,” Tate muttered and I ignored him.

  “Well, I’ve got shit to do today. I have two new pieces to lacquer and a speaker to re-wire. And if I eat any more of this crap, I’m going to throw up,” Tate said, sopping up the last of his syrup with a piece of toast. For a guy that hated the food so much, he was sure doing a good job of putting it away.

  “Do you boys need anything else?” Nancy the waitress asked. She stood close to my elbow and I gave her a polite smile. She beamed back at me, moving in a bit closer. Tate snorted and made a crude gesture with his hand and mouth while looking at our server. Again, I ignored him.

  “No, we’re good, Nancy. Thanks,” I said. She dropped her hand onto my arm and gave it a squeeze. Always touching. Tate snorted again. It didn’t make me uncomfortable. It made me sad. For her. For a woman who could only find joy in groping the young customers.

  “You in the market for some old lady strange?” Tate snickered.

  “You’re a dick.” I shook my head.

  “I’m a HUGE dick,” he chortled, grabbing at his junk, though thankfully it was underneath the table.

  “Dude, this is a family restaurant,” I groaned, looking around.

  “Stop being such a pussy.” Tate started to put on his coat. “I’ve got to get back. You comin’?”

  “Nah, I’m still eating. I can pay for yours. Head out if you want.” I had a mountain of stuff to do back at the studio but I wasn’t feeling in a rush to leave. Never in a rush. I liked to take my time.

  “Really? That’s cool of you. I’ll getcha back another time,” Tate said, getting to his feet.

  Then I was alone.

  And awkwardly sitting by myself. I looked at my food. Concentrating. I didn’t want to look lonely. But that’s exactly what I was.

  Lonely.

  Alone.

  Always.

  I stuffed a fry in my mouth and then started constructing elaborate structures out of the fried potatoes on my plate.

  Piling. Stacking. Making things out of nothing. It’s what I did best.

  “Is that Stonehenge?”

  The voice startled me and I may have flinched a little. I’m not sure why.

  I looked up and froze.

  Literally and completely froze. Paralyzed. Immobilized. Suspended in motion.

  Because she was gorgeous in all the ways that you would expect a girl to be. Her hair was long and dark. Her lips plump and looked as though they tasted like my downfall. Her skin was pale and unblemished except for the freckles dusting her nose.

  I knew those freckles were deceiving. She wore innocence like a badge. To be noticed. To cajole unsuspecting souls into easy submission. Those freckles could lure a man into false confidence, thinking her meek and malleable.

  But her eyes gave her away.

  Dark and wide and bottomless. Coal black. They were sad and devoid of light. But I knew there was a soul inside there somewhere.

  Or at least I hoped so.

  She had a beat up copy of Swann’s Way tucked under her arm, and I instantly recognized her. It was the girl from last weekend.

  I had noticed her right away. It was impossible not to pay attention to someone that looked like that. She had watched me even as I pretended not to watch her. I had dug her voyeur act. It was flattering.

  I was not a Casanova by any stretch of the imagination but I loved women. And they loved me. It was a reciprocal arrangement built on mutual pleasure and satisfaction. My relationships ended amicably. Effortlessly. Simply. It was done in a respectful manner for all parties involved. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, because I wasn’t in the habit of being hurt. I wouldn’t allow it. My partners knew it. There were no expectations.

  I didn’t do drama. Or unnecessary tension. Life was too s
hort to be mired in wasteful emotions.

  And I had noticed her. The girl with the coal black eyes who had never said a word.

  I had briefly wondered if she was a mute.

  Though apparently not.

  “Huh?” I asked lamely.

  She arched an eyebrow and nodded her head toward my plate. I looked down and realized I had indeed built a sad little Stonehenge out of my fries.

  “Looks like it,” I chuckled. I tried not to stare at her but it was really hard. She was that pretty.

  She stood there beside my table with an odd expression on her face. She stared at my seasoned fries like they were a hell of a lot more interesting than I was.

  Overshadowed by junk food. I had hit a new low.

  “Maybe I should try for the White House next time.” I sounded like an idiot. My poor attempt at a joke was ridiculous. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to hear her voice again.

  I was feeling irrational. Impulsive.

  Crazy.

  “Or maybe you should just eat them and stop playing with your food like a two year old,” she suggested without a hint of coldness or sarcasm.

  Her voice was calmly neutral and devastatingly blasé. She had taken me out at the knees as though she were talking about the weather.

  Who was this girl?

  “Or I could do that,” I agreed, humiliated and intrigued all at the same time.

  She cocked her head to the side and regarded me, and I felt like fidgeting in my seat. But I didn’t. I wasn’t that guy. I still had some balls after all.

  Even if they were starting to shrivel under her impenetrable gaze.

  Then she quietly slid into the chair opposite me, without an invitation, and reached for the menu wedged between the ketchup bottle and maple syrup.

  This was odd.

  She was odd.

  I picked up another fry and dunked it in the ranch dressing. I ate it slowly, watching the girl with the coal black eyes the entire time.

  “Can I get you anything else, Elian?” Nancy asked, coming back to the table.

  The girl who had taken over my table continued to study the menu, as though she were by herself in this room full of people. As though sitting across from me meant nothing but a shared space between strangers.

  And really wasn’t that all it was?

  I wasn’t so sure.

  “Uh, do you want to order?” I asked the girl, feeling off balance.

  I was unsettled.

  The girl with the coal black eyes finally looked up from the menu and closed it softly before putting it back where she found it.

  “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  “Good choice,” I said, smiling. Her lips lifted in response. Not so much a smile as a grimace. As though she wasn’t used to stretching those muscles.

  “Seasoned fries and ranch dressing it is,” Nancy said and she sounded a little sour. Nancy was a sweet middle-aged lady with graying red hair and lipstick on her teeth. She had been working at Denny’s for as long as I had been eating there. Three long years.

  “Thanks Nancy. And can I get a slice of Kentucky pie while you’re at it?” I asked and Nancy gave me a sweet look before writing the order on her pad.

  Once Nancy was gone, I turned to Coal Black Eyes and waited. She had pulled out her book and had it open on the table in front of her, her arms folded to hold the battered edges down.

  What was going on?

  I didn’t say anything. It felt wrong to interrupt her. So I continued to build things with my fries. I’d carefully pile them up and then slowly dismantle them. One by one.

  “My name’s Layna,” she said without looking up. Her hair fell on either side of her face like a curtain. Hiding her from my curiosity.

  Her voice was smoky and dark, much like her eyes.

  “Layna what?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a napkin and waiting some more.

  She didn’t answer right away. She kept reading. And I kept eating.

  We fell into a slightly awkward but strangely companionable silence.

  It was the weirdest encounter of my entire life. I didn’t make a habit of sitting with strange girls who didn’t talk. I was an outgoing guy because it’s who I trained myself to become. Most people seemed to like me. I was safe. Non-threatening. Easygoing. I had mastered the art of hiding what I didn’t want others to see.

  I had friends. I had a job that I enjoyed. I had an ex-girlfriend or two that could corroborate to the fact that I was a decent sort of person.

  But there was something about this moment, this girl, that felt…necessary.

  I couldn’t help but stare at her.

  It wasn’t just her looks that fascinated me. She had a magnetism that was usually reserved for cult leaders and religious icons. I imagined walking over hot coals and jumping off cliffs. It wasn’t absurd or insane.

  It just was.

  Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should ask her why she was sitting at my table when I didn’t know her and it was obvious she wasn’t there for the conversation.

  But I didn’t do any of that.

  I just sat there. Eating my fries. One at a time. Trying not to stare at the girl who had invaded my space.

  “Whitaker,” she said finally, answering the question I had almost forgotten I had asked. She turned the page in her book and dog-eared the top corner before closing it. She pushed it to the edge of the table and turned her attention to me.

  I shivered. Cold. Frigid.

  Her eyes were just as unusual as the rest of her. It wasn’t the color so much as the unfathomability of them. They cut through me. Stabbing me and thrilling me.

  Coal black.

  “I’m Layna Whitaker,” she repeated, as though to make sure I had heard her.

  Oh I had heard her all right. Her name was now tattooed on my insides. Beating in my skull like a drum.

  Nancy came back just then and dropped Layna’s plate on the table in front of her before giving me my slice of pie.

  “Thanks, Nancy,” I said.

  “Anything for you, sugar,” the waitress said with a coy wink before walking away.

  “She likes you,” Layna murmured, picking up a French fry and doing just as I had always done. Submerged it in the dressing before scooping it out and eating it, then licking her fingers clean.

  “Nah, she’s just a lonely lady,” I replied. Something about my words seemed to bother Layna. Her eyes were sad. So sad and so dark. They made my stomach knot up and drop to my feet.

  “Yeah…lonely,” Layna said softly, more to herself than to me.

  We fell into silence again.

  “I’m Elian,” I told her after a while.

  “Elian what?” Layna parroted my words back at me and I had to smile.

  “Beyer. My name is Elian Beyer.” I gave her my name easily and without hesitation. Maybe we were making headway here. We had progressed from total silence to swapping names.

  That was something I guessed.

  “Nice to meet you, Elian Beyer.” Layna turned her coal black eyes back to her plate and we finished eating without saying another word.

  Nancy came by a few more times to re-fill our drinks and to ask Layna if she wanted dessert, which she declined.

  And then, after another thirty minutes, Layna was getting to her feet. She was leaving, and we had shared no more than a few dozen words between us. But for some reason that was okay.

  “I’ll see you next time, Elian,” Layna said, giving me one last glimpse of her coal black, sad, sad eyes. She picked up her book, tucked it back under her arm and left just as she had come.

  And I was left wondering if I had imagined the whole thing.

  I realized she hadn’t left any money for the bill and maybe I should be annoyed that she assumed I’d pick up the tab. Hell, I didn’t even know the girl. It was a fucked up assumption that I’d pay for her food when she barely even acknowledged my presence.

  But for some reason I didn’t care.

  Because I knew I
’d see her again next time.

  And that was payment enough.

  The person I became was born in the normal way with a mother who wanted and loved me and a father who provided for my every need. I was doted on. I was adored. I was dolled up in pretty dresses with bows in my hair.

  It was a perfect life created from perfectly horrible lies.

  My mother loved in an oblivious way. Unable to see fault in her life or her husband. Her glasses were always rose and she refused to see the nightmare she had unwittingly built a home with.

  But those rose-colored frames didn’t extend to me. As I grew older she saw in me the things she wouldn’t see in Daddy.

  Bad things.

  Horrible things.

  My father was…different.

  He loved in the only way that he could. Stern. Hard. But with an undercurrent of gentle tenderness that made what came later so hard to bear. Because my father was a broken man. Splintered and fractured with few discernable pieces left of the person he may have once been.

  And for that reason he became the center of my young, complicated heart.

  He wasn’t a man you’d pay much attention to. He owned a hardware store in the middle of town but otherwise kept to himself. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t go bowling or have lunch with the rotary club. He found idle chitchat meaningless and unnecessary.

  But he talked to me. He would tell me stories. Tales that kept me close to a man I loved and struggled to know.

  He’d often leave us for a week or so at a time to go fishing, his one passion. I never thought to question these trips because as a child, I only cared about the day he came back.

  Not why he was gone.

  “Do you want to come with me to get some ice cream for after dinner?” my father asked. He had just gotten back from a fishing trip. He was gone longer this time and I had missed him.

  My mother hadn’t questioned why he came home on Monday instead of Saturday like he said he would. She had smiled and made sure to make him his favorite dinner. She only ever gave him those smiles. They were reserved for him alone. There was love and devotion in those smiles that in my mind I wanted for myself. We were all happier when Daddy was around. Life was better. The grass was greener. The air just a little bit clearer.

  We were planets revolving around his sun.