Photo by Ashe Walker on Unsplash For most of his life, he enjoyed living alone. He was kind, courteous and with a warm smile. He was a little over forty. He had no complaints. He had learned to enjoyed his forsaken solitude. He had to. He was a writer. His profession required him to sit for hours by himself staring at a blank paper or screen, building stories, and weaving it’s elements together. He was good at his job with a lot of publishers chasing him enabling a steady income. In a good mood, he painted words that felt like fine wine and soft music to his readers. He also kept himself in shape by going to the gym and you would often find him exploring different cuisines at restaurants and also trying them at home. He believed experimental cooking awakens all senses at once, enhancing his creative side and helping him write better.
Every day he sat down at his writing desk which stood against the wall in his study. It was a fine desk and a place that made him tick and stories came dancing out every time. A pile of books stacked one above the other, the books from all his favourite writers, stood there on the corner of the table. He always felt the books staring at him each time he sat down to write. Their voice ricocheting, every time he was struck by writer’s block, what he called the dead end.
Wednesdays were different. He would drive over the longest bridge running across his city, to go to a cafe which stood by the flowing river. It was a small cafe, unknown to many. It was just as he wanted. Tranquil, quiet that he loved and just a single sound — flowing river, clear water over rocks, with some distant chattering. The cafe was comfortable and found it exceptionally located. They did not play any music nor did they have comfortable soft cushioned chairs. But the chairs were perfect for him. It was perfect for reading. Not too hard or too soft. And there is nobody around. I don’t think you would find people on a weekday, a Wednesday, walking in and out of an insignificant cafe buying local coffee. Even if they did, they would walk up to the nearest Starbucks or Costa.
So mid-week, you would find him in the little known cafe, drowned himself in a book, from half-past ten to half-past one. And when the clock strikes, he makes his way to the nearest restaurant and savours a delicious meal all by himself.
On that particular Wednesday morning, he was reading, as usual, in the nearly empty cafe. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. He read it many years ago, and when he spied it on his old bookshelf, he decided to re-read it again. He loved doing that. Again, he found himself completely absorbed into the story, as though it was his first read.
After an hour’s concentrated reading, he puts his book down to rest his eyes, only to see a woman seated on the next table, who was also reading. It took him by a surprise. Imagine on a weekday morning, in a deserted cafe, two people sitting beside each other and reading a book unknown of each other’s presence. He had never met anyone like that. Not until now. This was a strange and startling encounter, which surprised both of them. He would always remember this day. The day he met the women with intellect, an avid reader and artist by profession. That is what he remembered. The woman was confident, smart and at the same time very intriguing.
They had lunch together at a nearby restaurant and shared their similar interest, reading. They had light lunch and talked about the books they’d read, and the author’s they adored. They spoke uninterrupted for hours until they realised they had to call it a day.
Next week again, as he sat at the cafe reading, she turned up. They sat across the room, and read with no interruptions until the end of their reading session. He walked over to her, and like the week before they to a nearby restaurant to have lunch. As they had their Ravioli pasta and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc wine, they talked about general things. Things, they usually do not discuss with anyone. Perhaps, it came out in his writing and hers depicting in her art.
This went on for a couple of months. Something had clicked between them. Not the kind of thing that happens all the time. Each time he went back home, terrible loneliness swept over him. He had never felt this way talking to anybody. He had not spoken to anyone so openly in years. He had always kept to himself in his world of writing.
There was something unique about the woman. She was not like any he met in his life so far. They liked the same books and writer, the restaurants, the same cuisines. The coincidence was hard to ignore. As usual, one fine Wednesday, he decided to share his feelings with her. He could no longer contain it in his heart. He was not able to focus on his writing, which is by in itself a rare occurrence. He had started having sleepless nights.
The day arrived, and he went to the cafe. But, she never turned up. Not that week, not the next, not the week after that either. She never returned. Without saying anything — without a warning — she disappeared.
Later some time, in the middle of the night, he woke up. The writer was suddenly gripped with fear. Maybe it was the moonlight or the fear of being distraught. No. It was something else. With every passing minute, he felt himself sinking deeper, into the sand, with no one to rescue him. His identity vanishing. The glow of real life was missing. He was alone once again, with no one to talk to, share things with, have lunch with, none. None at all. He was back to being a lost, lonely, loner, in the light of life. He felt barely alive. He did nothing to feel alive.
He looked around. He says to himself it was just a dream. Of course, it was. The thoughts were all in his head. He always lived inside his head. With all the made-up characters and the stories he wrote. Stop thinking. Stop thinking of dark thoughts, he told himself aloud. As if trying to avoid the fear of loneliness staring, ready to engulf him. You are just tired, overwrought, he thought. The wave of fear shall pass. The panic, the lucid vision from the dream shall fade.
He talks himself to sleep, in his head, again. My search will continue — somewhere. I won’t stop. I won’t stop until I find it. A search, a treasure hunt that will give me a hint to find me the missing element of life. Hoping search takes him where he’s likely to find it.
© Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.
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