Dear Lovage,
The inexplicable delicacy in human contacts and social interactions really amazes me.
And all took place within the space of an hour during lunch break.
It's another Wednesday, nothing particular or special about the day. Out of the blue SOMEBODY emailed me. He's still in the US, and has no intention of going to London, strangely as I suspected.
Before lunch, I thought this would be the special event of today, if it could even count, you know.
***
So I took my books and went to a cafe nearby. At the entrance a slim lady with a big smile in her face stood with a stack of lunch boxes, asking me whether I wanted one as I held out my hand for the door handle. I said, "No." curtly, but immediately thought my manners might have seemed rather rude, so I turned to smile at her and explained what I really meant. "I mean, I don't want to eat, but I am coming in", I said with slight embarrassment, smiling.
I looked around me in the cafe, feeling relieved. They have the kind of light I like, instead of the fluorescent lamp in the office. So I sat down at a small table for two at the far end of this tiny cafe/restaurant, but moved to the seat across when I realised I was sitting right next to the loo. The other seat was not much more pleasant, because I ended up having to sip my coffee back to back with the kitchen staff buzzing around behind me, delivering business lunch dishes and waiting at other tables. This is their "work" table. They don't usually seat people there.
Once I got into the stories, though, it was fine. I didn't mind the least.
So I continued reading, finished [Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?], and began reading [So Much Water So Close to Home] again. I could not help but marvel with intense feelings once again, at the strong impact of such simple language. Raymond Carver's writing just seems so powerful. I paused from time to time, musing over different situations described in the stories. I thought of myself, wondered what I'd look to the eyes of a stranger, wondered if they would think me nice and lovely. But I soon felt too vain to be thinking such thoughts and changed the subject of contemplation: art, thought processes, dignity, the nature of petty selfishness, ...etc.
I got to the part when Claire decides to sleep on the sofa for that night, and Stuart was hurt and upset and frustrated. I pondered upon the following passage:
I can't answer. I don't know what I want to say. I turn and begin to tuck in the edges of the blanket. He stares at me a minute longer and then I see him raise his shoulders. "Suit yourself then. I could give a fuck less what you do," he says. He turns and walks down the hall scratching his neck. (Carver, 1993: 83)
***
I was just considering the similarity between myself and the characters in his stories when I realised it was time to go back to work. I stood up, gathered my things and took out two hundred NT notes. I went to the counter to pay, still vaguely trying to think, but was taken by surprise when the lady behind the bar told me the cup of Blue Mountain coffee I just had was a treat. I looked up at her in puzzle and astonishment, and she reassured me again that it was her superior's treat.
Her superior was sitting with her friends at a table of four by the wall. I had only noticed that she was sitting down with the customers of this cafe a second ago, and felt surprised. Needless to say, she is the woman selling lunch boxes at the door a while ago. I made a point to say thank you before I pushed the door open to leave, still feeling puzzled, but certainly touched, perhaps by some kindness of a stranger, perhaps the subtlety in human contacts, perhaps something else.
In bleak contrast to the bright side of human nature, two minutes later I was shivering inside when facing imaginary danger, presuming and speculating personality traits of some complete stranger.
In the lift I found myself alone with a short but fierce looking man. He has an air of suppressed violence about him that made me go cold with fear. On the same note of coming into contact with a stranger, isn't it weird that I should have felt so scared when all he had done was take a glance at me? I was sure of his stare behind me when I stepped out of the lift towards my office. I heard the sliding doors hit his body, flung open, and closed again, before I hurried into the office. I couldn't get the doubt and suspicion out of my mind. I kept wondering why he didn't stay where he stood in the space, why he'd moved to come between the doors, maybe, just maybe, wanting to see where I was going...
I was not being fair. But I couldn't help it. And I can't explain it, either.
How are you today?
My model friend is currently in Ireland, so I guess you couldn't get in touch with him even if you tried. No worries. He should be back in Notting Hill soon.
Take care love
kisses and hugs
Parsley
文章定位：
