I enter the dark room of my apartment. It doesn’t bother me, the absence of light. On the contrary it has a soothing and somewhat comforting touch to it; a feeling that I am safe that no one is disrupting the fragile equilibrium that my soul rarely is but often craves to be. I hear perfect silence, a balm to my ears and a stark contrast to the utter mess and chaos that makes up my mind. Or possibly just occupies it for the time being until I settle down. One may ask what settling down is going to look like, and how is it different from the life that I already live? Isn’t it settled down? But no, it’s not. Settling down implies a sort of satisfaction with where you’re at, and I’m still in my pursuit of it.
Being this deep in my thoughts, as usual, I don’t notice that I’m not actually alone. No, there’s a silhouette at my window, perched on the windowsill and tracing her finger along glass as she tracks a reflection of a blinking light outside with her finger. I’m sure it is a ‘she’ even though I can’t see her features. There is a certain feminine grace in her wrists, a particular softness that men’s bodies could never possess. I notice that she’s barefoot, her thin feet touching the cold glass of the window. Everything in me shudders, she must be cold. And it’s the first comment that I make. Not “Who are you?”, “Why are you here?” or even “How did you get in here?” No, it’s “Why are you barefoot? It’s chilly.” She only responds with “I’m never cold.” Just that simple. I’m not sure I’ve actually heard her right as all I can think of is the sound of her voice. I’m enthralled by it. How can it be both the most innocent chirp of a morning bird and a husky mist of a lover after a night of love? It makes me long to hear it again, and I do hear it again, which breaks my reverie.
“Actually, I’m always cold. It’s hard to make a distinction anymore, you know?” She finally turns to face me, and one would think that the charm and the mystery she possessed while being invisible to me would vanish, but oh, how mistaken they would be. Her face, the simplest canvas ever seen, held all the conundrums of this world and the mystery of the whole universe. How can something so simple contain every complexity imaginable? I have no clue.
“I’m sorry to be imposing on you—”, the woman begins, but I can’t bear her being sorry for anything.
“Oh no,” I interrupt. “Make yourself at home.”
“I kind of did.” She smiles and I gasp. “I don’t mind you thinking of me as a woman fine.” She puts her feet down to hang restlessly. “Although I possessed a fairly equal number of men and women, and it has been a lot.”
“So, you don’t have any preference then?”
“Who to be or who to possess?”
“Who to accompany.”
“No, I don’t care. Loneliness is universal, and the feeling is mostly the same. It’s what people do about it that is different, but I have little care about it.”
So that must be who she is: loneliness. I believe her. I believe every word. What would a human want to do in my home at this time of night, sitting cozily on my windowsill? Of course, it has to be an entity that came to taunt me with her beauty, her grace, her softness, and, more than anything else – longing.
“Taunt you? Don't be dramatic, sweetheart. And yes,” she says softly before I can even voice my concerns. “I can somewhat feel what you are thinking. Not in the way that you people depict in cinema or even books, but rather just a general sense with sprinkles of words that you emphasize, or strong emotions. And damn do I know lyrics to every bittersweet song that has ever existed, I’ve heard them all,” she concludes with a self-satisfied smirk that soon turns sour. She sighs and combs her long fingers through her hair.
“You're going to get your bearings back soon. Don't be ashamed of that everyone I come to is like this,” Loneliness continues, now looking right into my eyes. Being the center of her attention is… I don’t have any descriptors for it but believe me in assuring you I enjoyed every second of it. “I possibly have a type.” I swear, she looked positively smug.
We sit in silence for a few moments. “So, I guess, I’m not the first person to see you,” I finally respond. But immediately I realize that there were at least a hundred more clever things to say. She knows it too.
“Of course, not, silly. I’m as old as… hmm... What else is as old as me? Humanity is somewhat more ancient, but not by much.” She takes a moment to think. The silence stretches and stretches but doesn’t ever become uncomfortable.
I am about to say “I don’t actually care,” but she interrupts me again. “People like you like metaphors and comparisons and all that poetry. That’s why I chose you.”
“And why would that be?”
“You,” Loneliness slowly gets on her feet, “are the only sort of people who accept me for who I am,” she makes a tentative step towards me, “without pretenses or arguments. You relish,” another step, “feeling lonely. Or at least being alone,” she comes close enough to touch. “Am I not right?”
I gulp at the sight of her right in front of me and manage a nod before finally asking in confirmation. “Accept you as who exactly?”
She tilts her head in disbelief. “But you know already.”
“I like to be sure.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“So you think you know me?”
“I do.”
“Doubt it.”
“How do I know that you like it then?”
“Like what?”
“This exchange.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have participated in it otherwise. It’s just a logical assumption.”
“And you like those.”
“I do.”
I stopped to catch my breath. I do like it, and I like her despite not knowing who she is (but I do), or her appearing out of nowhere (but I don’t really mind), or her not being direct enough in stating her business.
“So, we are done with the foreplay?” she smirks, but I see sadness in her eyes. “Can a girl ask for a cup of coffee for such an uneasy conversation?” Loneliness looks at me with mischief, but I feel she is stalling. Well, the night is young, and although I cherish my sleep, I can skip it. It’s not every day or night that you meet someone like this.
“If you know me that well, you sure know that the only coffee I have is cheap shit. I can’t say my tea is premium quality, but it’s still much better.”
“I do know I just wanted to…”
I don’t let her finish her sentence. “Come on, tease, let’s have some tea.” Then I add, “You sure you don't want any slippers?”
“No, but thank you for asking.”
I don't remember leading her to my kitchen. We are somehow already there with a whistling kettle on the counter, and I don't notice that my whole attention is on her. I'm wondering if I can test her mind-reading capabilities. Yes, she said it wasn't exactly mind-reading, but who am I not to check?
“No, I don’t know what kinds of tea you have. Yes, I can know you without knowing your tea selection. And do surprise me. I know very little about tea, despite…” she stops abruptly. I notice how the next words she intends to say pain her, so I let her out of her misery. “I think a milky ooloon blend is right what you need for a night like this,” I let my thoughts tumble out of my mouth. “It’s both tannic and soft like moonlight.”
“Ever the poet,” she whispers but I think she intends for me to hear it. “You may have stopped writing but you are still a poet in your heart.” Loneliness puts her delicate hand on her chest as if to indicate the heart’s location, which I know, thank you very much… I haven’t ever been a poet. I always considered myself a musician. And I tell her that, to which she smiles broadly and asks, “Why do you think musicians are not poets? You don’t have to use words to be one.” I’ve never considered it like that.
And maybe tea is getting more bitter than I intend it to because I spend too much time thinking, well, so be it. I pour both of us a cup and hand one to her. I notice how her eyes are both sparkling with passion and still dull with boredom. Are my eyes like that? Torn between enjoying so many things in life and having no motivation to do or learn them. Or energy, in my case, I have so little energy for anything.
“Is it possible that one of those cups is for me?” I hear Loneliness speak and leave my stream of thoughts. Yes, I have indeed been holding onto both cups.
“I forgot to ask you whether you took it with sugar. Would you like some?” I ask.
“No, thank you. But what about milk?”
I blink stupidly. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about tea.” I feel uneasy... something feels odd.
“Well, I don’t know any blends, but I saw some of my ‘victims’,” she indicated her meaning with both her tone and her hands, “adding some milk to their teacups.”
“Well, I’m not that kind of person. I don’t have any milk in my fridge.” I shrug. “So,” I say realizing that I have to guide the conversation before we spend all night talking about nonsense, “what it is that you possibly want me for?”
She hesitates some before finally stating with resolve in her voice, “I'd like you to help me with my loneliness.”