A Gander

Time passes and he wakes hunched over the piano. A small, pink sun has replaced the moon and, rising, the light creeps calmly across the wooden floor, reaching for the cup of stale tea. Gérard still sleeps, dreams of buzzing bees and fields of vibrant, orange poppies. With closed eyes he sees a young girl twirling through the field. Her lilac skirt gives her the appearance of a spinning top. She laughs and giggles and picks flowers. The sun is kissing her hair, making it hum and glow like white Christmas lights. Without intention, he drifts toward the girl as though pushed inertially onward by some invisible wave. The breeze from the wings of fat, fuzzy bees make the flowers sway and dance. He looks up at the blue sky and cannot find a single cloud. A solitary dove flutters from the tree beside him which, under normal circumstances might have startled him, but instead causes him to smile and walk toward the trunk. With eyes as yellow like egg yolks, the bird looks down at him. It cocks its head and blinks, as though surprised to see him.

On the ground, behind the tree, something crunches. The bird bolts. Its white wings clapping like thunder as it sails away; a blur of lightning across the sky. From behind the tree the girl emerges, her hands clasped behind her back. She steps forward playfully, a mischevious smile painted across her lips. Her head hangs askance, her shoulders, demure. One foot slides out in front of her and traces a bashful circle before she looks up at him. He is met by the lightest eyes he has ever seen. They seem, to him, out of place on her face; two enormous diamonds, extravagant yet insecure, set in cheap silver. As if she knows it too, her eyes sweep down and away, under the rug of her lashes. A hidden hand is thrust forward from behind her back. When she opens it, a bright orange poppy sprouts up from her palm. It warms his face and he has to squint to avoid looking away. The flower is rooted into her flesh. Green veins pulse beneath the skin of her her fingers. Her eyes meet his again and intermingle with the orange of the flower, lending a luminous complexity to her stare. The air buzzes loudly around them, hissing, and the light on his cheek begins to grow too hot. The sunlight focuses and intensifies in her magnificent, magnifying-glass eyes. The flower flickers, trembles, and then becomes a flame. Gérard gasps and reaches for the girl, to extinguish the fire scorching her hand. Piano keys crash on the low octave and he is startled awake, welcomed by the orange sun spilling into the room.

He groans as he sits up, cries out and straightens his spine. It cracks and pops like old wood. His hands run through his black hair, which has begun to grey, accumulating thin lines of white silk woven by small spiders. Even his numb fingers can feel the ache which rings his skull like a bell. The day brightens the room; exposing stacks of papers, bent, dog-eared compositions, a discarded pack of cigarettes, an ashtray with enough ash to fill an urn. He is not, generally speaking, an unkempt man, but has lately fallen into a sort of disrepair. Like all persons of intellect, Gérard has been stricken by certain truths which, once known, have an anti-palliating effect on the mind. Certain thoughts deprecate the heart, wither it. The more fortunate among us - those simple, narrow-minded souls - can go on unfettered and unperturbed by these pensive pains, for they need not reconcile the harshness and ugliness of injustice, inequity, and needless suffering. Before giving up his career, Gérard had been a justice, a revered and prestigious judge. He had been witness to atrocity and senseless murders, jealousies, both petty and grand evils. This indecent exposure had taken him out of tune, broken him. He wondered then, and now, how men could inflict such harm on one other. How it was possible for men to ignore the humanity in each another and debase themselves, succumbing to corruption and meanness. After a particularly troubling case involving an affair and a murder, an inheritance and disgusting manipulation, he had decided that all allegiance was only temporary. He had grown distrustful of friends and family, always suspicious of good samaritans. This is about the time he left the courts and began working as a volunteer medic and soup kitchen manager. In his spare time he spent countless hours, days, nights, composing songs.

But where once he found an outlet and sought self expression, he now saw struggle and misplaced ambition. Imagine, he thought, what might have been achieved had I applied myself. If I had chosen a selfless path I may have made a difference, may have brought people happiness; instead I have decided to aggrandize myself and pursue riches, acclaim, and notoriety. He sighs and stands up out of frustration, making his way through the apartment toward the bathroom. He hasn't cleaned it in weeks. Errant hairs and creeping grime thwart and stalk its cleanliness. There is a yellow, rust-colored ring around the bowl. It lingers even after he flushes it. Thoughts come to him, when he is alone, as he is now. Worries swarm him. They dance around his head like gnats. What if he can't pay his rent? What if the royalty check doesn't arrive? Before he knows it he is flushing the bowl. A loud, centripetal crashing wave is swallowed. It rides on the air until it dissolves, turns to mist.

He walks from his bathroom to the kitchen. As the cupboard swings open he's greeted by the neglected smell of old cereal. Each box is barely full, needs to be replaced. He pulls out two boxes, thinking he'll combine them, but when he opens the refrigerator he realizes he is out of milk. The door slams with a muffled clang. The refrigerator rocks, as though it just took a punch. Gerard sits down on his couch and reaches for his phone. No messages.

He checks his email. No messages.

The day has already become oppressively hot and he notices a bead of sweat sliding down the sides of his ribs. He'll shower soon, and go to the cafe on 1st. On weekends he always starts his day at the cafe, sipping on hot coffee. Today though, it will be iced. The smell caffeinates his nostrils, makes his nose hairs stand on end. Typically, he is alone, accompanied only by a book, or a stoic, brooding expression. Occasionally, a pretty girl, also alone, will smile coyly at him, signaling curiosity. But Gérard always averts his eyes and maintains a pensive expression. After Maria, he is afraid. He knows what havoc love can wreak. And so he is always painfully, dreadfully alone - even in company.

He has friends that will sometimes meet him at the cafe who live in the neighborhood. He likes them fine. They're good people: warm, loving, funny. They drink too much, but so does he. They are older than he is, most of them, but he is never acutely aware of this. They are charming, artistic, clever, beautiful. One such friend arrives, unexpected and sits down at the table. "Of all the bars in all the world," Ellis says laughing, "how are you mon ami?"