The Empty Seat

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The Empty Seat

I could not meet the gaze of the visage before me. I am not sure if it was fear of the unknown or a subconscious desire to remain hidden. I could not even reflect back as much as a smile or toothy grin. I remained reclusive and withdrawn within the safe haven of my being. The seat across from me, in all respects, should have remained empty, but it did not. I should have been free to let my eyes dance about, but due to bizarre circumstance, I reluctantly kept my field of view to myself, as I stared down at the plate of food on the table.

   I wish I could have taken my former self and nudged him along just a little sooner. For at that moment, that previous version of myself was concerned with nothing else besides evading an awkward moment, or wondering how he would respond if he was forced into conversation. But the naivety was not long lasting, for eventually, amidst the silence, the woman across from me spoke first—I was unprepared and nervous. She had a gentle smile that drew me in, as well as a singsong melodic tone that was both soothing and at the same time, eerily pulchritudinous. It came as no surprise when I was unable to respond properly at first, and was buried beneath fragments of illiterate speech.

   Looking back, I cannot believe how unjustified and petty my unsettlement was at that moment—never in my wildest fantasy could I have imagined the magnitude of what random chance had brought to me. I think, before we parted, we both must have been befuddled and disorganized for some time after the first greeting we shared. Before our farewell, I accidentally gave my heart to her. She could not have possibly noticed at the time—for it took me nearly a year to notice it was missing. Or perhaps she was aware, and I was the only one of the two of us left in the dark. Perhaps she stole it when I looked away—either way—I was without it.

    It took over a year for me to finally appreciate the shear serendipity and good fortune of our first meeting—our continued friendship too. And the irony finally became apparent, as I held her in an embrace amidst a torrent that had been plaguing us both throughout the evening. The skies decided to open up as I reached into my pocket, to retrieve my heart and hand it to her. I was at a lose when I found that it was already gone. And that is around the time, she revealed to me that she had been carrying it around since our first meeting. I neither dared to search for the courage to ask for it back, nor did I desire to do as such.

   It was either strength or stupidity that came to me at that instant, when I asked for her heart too. Upon her distraught visage, there was a mixture of emotions looming. At first, when I first heard her break the silence, I heard caring and benevolence. But I waited for some hint of hesitation or reluctance on her part, hoping that she would backtrack and rescript her words with a happier ending. But I knew it must be so—I think I have always known the truth. She did not reach into her pocket, to retrieve the heart which I have coveted for far too long. Instead, with a grim tone, she explained to me that she had already given it away, and that there was another who carried it, and kept it near.

   I often think back to that first moment, the one where—it seems odd to say—I was afraid of her. I wonder what would have happened if there had been another seat open that day, and I would have remained alone, contently munching on my breakfast of burnt toast and peanut butter. Not even with my incredibly overactive and vivid imagination can I fill in the blanks of what would have replaced the sleepless nights, that ensued after our first encounter, if we had not met. I am nearly positive I would not be the same person if I had not gotten to see the true benevolence that exists in the world.

   I have to laugh at my former self, for being so naive. The heart has a unique ability of lurking in subtlety—not revealing its true desires until it sees fit. The feelings harboured within my chest, were like the maturation of a magnificent oak tree. Starting off as a seedling, they grew until they had become a monumental being beyond belief. Each day, the lust and affection did not seem any greater than the day before, until one day I realized, there was a piece of me that seemed to be missing.

   Now I stand, a different—if not a peculiar man—wishing that fate may have a greater plan than any I can possibly conceive. The coarse edges of the pages that I hold between the fingertips of my right hand are a bittersweet reminder that today is likely the last time I will ever see her. That is, unless there truly is a godly being watching over me, and my life is secretly a Danielle Steel novel. But all levity aside, there is a pain deep within my chest that I cannot rid myself of, no matter how hard I try—for my feet walk, with guided destination, as I amble to nearly the exact location of our first meeting. I bow my head as I reach the door. And take in a deep breath before muttering a silent, sacrilegious, prayer. The pages I hold feel heavy in my grasp, as if each words have been written with lead instead of ink. Slipping into the building, I dart my eyes around the foyer, both hoping that I may be lucky enough to make eye contact with her, and also wishing that she may not show up.

   For one foolish moment, I decide to look down at my feet—it is a regrettable decision—when I look up again, she is walking in my general direction. I panic, and both my feet twitch towards the door but I am held statuesque by the gentle calling of her voice.

   “Hello,” she purrs calmly. It seems that not much has changed since our first meeting; I am still very much afraid of her.

   “Ahh—oh, hi there,” I say, clearly with equal serenity.

   “You wanted to see me?” She asks, tentatively.

   “Yes… I wanted to say… I wanted to say goodbye.”

   “Goodbye?” She asks with a grin, not quite understanding my sentiment.

   “I think I’m going far, far away.”

   “Where do you mean?”

   “I’m not sure yet. I just know, I need to get away from here.” I do not tell her that my true reason for leaving is because I cannot stand to be so near to her and not be able to properly express the respect I have for her—the feelings that have grown and are bound to tear me in two if I let them mature any more.

   “Would you like this back?” She asks, while reaching for the heart that I know she has kept with her all this time.

   “No, I would like you to have it,” I say with a tearful smile. I am not sure how, but like magic I find myself in an embrace, tied to her. Long after the hug should have been released, I cannot help but continue to cling to her. A billion thoughts run through my head, each one carrying with it a method that would allow me to stay.

   I part my mouth, as if to speak, but I am glad I do not. My words would be those of longing and lustful wishing. I cannot help but wonder if similar thoughts may be plaguing her, it seems unlikely, but for the sake of saving sanity, I like to assume there are.

   I am not sure if I let go, or if she wrangled free, but before I know it, she has turned away, and is preparing her leave. Luckily I remember to call her name one more time, so that I may hand her the book in my hands.

   “Here,” I say with blank sentiment.

   She grasps it with a quizzical expression at first but when she reads the title, and sees her name written across the top, I think she understands the poetic nature of the gift.

   “Thank you very much, I wish you well upon your way.”

   Her voice is kind and gentle, but part of me wishes she would beg me to stay—if she would have done so, I would have gladly remained. But such is not the case, and finally she turns to leave—I am left standing agape and awed as I look for a seat to rest my tired feet. Ironically I look towards the chair that I was seated in during our first meeting. I cannot help but draw myself towards it so that I may revaluate myself with new perspective.

   I am the same person I was last time I sat here, but in many ways I have evolved. My youthfulness has left me since then, and I have been faced with more tribulation then I could have foresaw. My stupidity has not let me be, as it seems that I am still as naive as ever and it is even possible that my maturity has decreased.

   This room has not changed much either. The tables have the same recently-polished glow, and the woman working on the cash register is the same woman who was here years before. I see her as a chronicler, documenting not only my life but the lives of everyone who have come and gone. At this moment she is looking down, reading the daily news. I wonder if she remembers me, if she would be able to recall my name. Surely, I must be lost to a sea of faces—one of thousands. The glass in my hand dances with my fingertips, animated by their own accord—a ballet of unconscious emotion that is being portrayed through my nervous twitching. I raise it to my lips and nearly miss. My hand is shaking, but what for what reason, I am not sure.

   The seat, the empty seat, remains across from me. Empty, as it rightfully should be. There is nowhere to hide, when I look up and see a beautiful, beautiful woman looking back at me. There is nowhere to shift my line of sight or any hope of escape. She walks towards me, and delicately slips into the seat.

   “I cannot, in good faith, hold on to this.” She reaches into her purse and places my heart on the table between us.

   “I don’t want it,” I respond.

   “You need it.” She nudges it towards me.

   The vascular bundle that beats between us is a grotesque sight. It is dripping blood on the table and horrifically pulsates and flounders.

   “What am I going to do with that?” I say, with a defeated tone in my voice.

   “You are going to take it, and fall in love.”

   “Am I now?”

   “Yes, you are. Give it to somebody who you think deserves it.”

   “I am not the best judge of character. Last time I gave it away, it was a foolish blunder.”

   “You did not give it away. It was stolen, remember?”

   “I do recall, but why can’t you keep it with you. I don’t want the trouble it’s bound to cause.”

   “It’s not mine to keep.” She puts her hand on top of mine, smiles, and leaves, presumably for the last time. I am left feeling unsure of myself, unsure of just about anything.

   I look to the feeble, dying organ that remains on the table. I slide it near, leaving a trail of pericardial fluid along the way. I give it a look of disgust, and toss it in the air twice, catching it like a baseball. I push my chair away with a high pitch squeal, and walk silently towards the doorway. There is a loud thud on my way out, as I walk by the cash register (where the kindly woman who has been there for years resides). The noise is caused as I furiously throw the organ from my hand into the trash bin beneath the table.

   The woman gives me an odd look—but I do not notice, for I decide it is best not to look back. She opens her mouth, as if to burden me with her words of elation and encouragement, but luckily she decides to let it be. Little do I know, she does in fact remember me. She was even present to witness the original thievery of the heart that resides by her feet.

   With a coy smile, she reaches into the bin and retrieves the bloody mass of arterial flesh. She has been waiting for years for a heart to replace the one she long ago lost—the one she foolishly gave away as a young woman. She takes the heart, and fits it within her chest, and is finally—after all these years—reminded of what it is like to truly breathe. She is, after all this time, finally free.