The Stories We Never Tell
“You never say anything”. She pointed her martini glass at him, tilting the contents slightly without a splash. A drunkard might create a small waterfall. But she was never tipsy. A drink was an accessory. Rainy Saturdays and disastrous Mondays. And he? He had become a habit for the days in between.
He looked back at her from his perch beside the window. The hotel had given ledges inside the rooms so you could just sit and enjoy the view. “I am silent 18 hours a day. I guess it has grown on me”. She chuckled. “Really? Who do you talk to the other 6 hours?” “I grunt when we have sex”. He was laughing now and walking towards her. She always loved how he approached her. That small flutter in her stomach and then the rush of blood to the head was not an accident. She willed it on herself every time he walked towards her or leaned back from her.
He touched her. “And then I fart and belch in the office bathroom”. “Your own spa”. He shrugged. “My boss is a busy man. He pays me well. The price is loneliness and a bad stomach”. “That was my earlier question”, she said.”There are two hundred people in that 25th century office of yours. Why do I never hear anything?” He nuzzled her. “Anything? Like what thing….?” “Scandals, gossip, you know…”. He moved downwards. “Umm. Umm. Do you really think that will give me the increment so I can make the taxi fare to your fancy place?” She held him with both hands and moved him back. “You are off-topic. We can have sex later. I need to know now.” He blew out air. “The heat gone away? Or did you turn on a fire extinguisher inside?” She giggled. “You are so fucking annoying.” He moved to the sofa and looked out. They had kept the room dark other than a single lamp standing in a corner. Outside the glass, the city glittered.
Where he came from, these views were absent. There was no notion of a view nor the need for one because no one stayed in those places for long. They came and they went back or went somewhere else, dreaming of lost childhoods when in indigestion. Then they hid their fears by strutting around in offices, making meals of timid colleagues and soaking their tattered consciences in cheap, over-priced bars. She, on the other hand, had her apartment just down the road from the hotel and the hilltop location made it a look-out. She could see the rest of the world as she wanted it to look like. But she was nice to him. Nice and decent. Like the glass of water she handed him without his asking and came and sat beside him. They let the heat dissipate and watched the air beyond the aircon without talking for a minute or so.
“Won’t you tell me?” “What?” “We had gone to that party with the Smiths and you stayed silent. We had dinner with the Ramaswamys and you were silent. Charlie was asking whether you had any problems. I am worried you are in some sort of trouble”. He sighed. “You know, you get into office and find the urge to talk. You talk. And then that goes around. You like this cricketer, they make a story. You don’t like the steak the boss ordered everyone to have. That’s another story. Then it becomes part of assessment. Stories aren’t sacred anymore.” “Where does everyone find time for stories?” He snorted and sipped the water. “I used to wonder, too. Then I understood something”. He turned towards her. “All that people do in office is tell stories and listen to stories. The work goes on. The machine works. We are there to sit around while the machine is working. As long as we sit there and put in out eight and five, there’s no problem. The machine watches us. We go home. That’s it.” She touched his hand. “Do you want to see a shrink? Talking to one might help”. “No. I don’t want to pay someone to ask questions when I am the one with all the questions”. “So what is the solution?” “I am writing it all down”. “Writing what?” “My story. Not in my own name, of course. No. But everything. Then I sometimes go back and read. It helps take the fear away. Those guys become characters in the pages. Nothing more. And I don’t need to tell them my stories”. “Am I in that story of yours?” He smiled in answer and pointed to the bar in the corner. She got up. “Highball?” “Japanese style? Sure!” “You want to put it on Instagram?” He flipped his palm and they laughed at each other.