The Absence of Heat

Laughter rings loudly enough to be heard out into the streets. Her hand rests naturally on his arm, as she reaches in and wishes him Happy Birthday and gently kisses his cheek. Proud of him, she smiles at the turnout and is happy he can be honored in this way. He deserves it. In the way men do, one of his friends makes a joke at his expense and there is a roar of laughter as they raise their glasses. A short distance away, a mother shares a meal with a daughter who lives in another state. It has been longer than she wanted since the two of them ate a meal together and the relief on her face is palpable. Minutes into sharing what has been going on in their respective lives, their banter and inside jokes return, they return to form, and it is as if they had never parted. A few tables away, two co-workers bond over the frustrations of their job. The absurdity of the their boss draws a laugh — the defeated laugh of one who had dreams he abandoned as he accepted his lot in life. The two embrace their connection and take comfort in the friendship that rose from the ashes of those dreams. At the bar, three fans relax after a long day at work as they root for their team and talk about women, work, and what the best beer on tap is. And in the corner, a couple are on a date. By the look in their eyes, it is not their first. Love, like a third person on the date, commands the attention of the table. The restaurant is full and everywhere is the movement of life. Servers move in and out refilling drinks, bringing food, and making their patrons feel welcome and comfortable. Glasses clink and laughter erupts. It is alive with movement and warmth.

I stand, outside, looking at the warmth through the window. Long ago, the sun set. Darkness permeates, and the chill in the air cuts deep. There is nowhere I would rather be than at one of those tables — any of those tables. Ready for the warmth, I reach for the door only to find no handle. Where, only moments ago, there was a door, now there is none. Confused, I return to the window and begin waving my arms, desperate to alert someone of my plight. When no one looks up, I begin to beat on the glass. And still, no one sees me. I look for another door, a window, a rear entrance — any way into the restaurant — and I can find none. So I return to the window, and wait. The next day, the tables have changed and new patrons inhabit them. But the connections are just as real, the laughter just as boisterous, and the warmth just as inviting. Yet I still cannot find an entrance. Day after day I try, endlessly denied what I desire most. The repetitive cycle takes a toll on me, I grow weary, and the chill feels all the colder.

Darkness and cold.

And loneliness.

This is all there is and all that I know. The loneliness, unbearable. The cold, biting. The darkness, absolute. The oubliette of despair awaits if not but for one thing.

Hope.

Hope that the day will finally come. And on that day — Someone inside will look up. See the face at the glass. And come to open the door themselves.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Long ago, the weariness turned to cynicism, which then became depression. And just when I thought hope abandoned me too, someone looked up.

And she opened the door.

After so long in darkness, her light was blinding. Disoriented and convinced I was in a fever dream, I tried to make sense of the bizarre and surreal. My eyes slowly grew accustomed to the light as I began to make out shapes. Soon, I could see her clearly. Immediately, I memorized everything about her and stood dazed at the realization of her surpassing beauty. I don’t remember speaking, but perhaps I said something silly. Or, she was struck by the look on my face, for she laughed. The sound was a sweet melody that resonated with my very soul, and a peace washed over me like none I have felt before. The constant observation of the patrons of the restaurant, the analysis of their conversation, the pattern recognition that interpreted their body language, and the constant scanning for an entry point taxed the resources of my brain in perpetuity. As her laugh rang free, it all...stopped.

Years passed and she received something she had searched her entire life for — intimate, experiential knowing. I saw her completely, accepted what I saw, and spent years showing her that what I saw, was beautiful. And she gave me something I did not know existed. Reciprocity. My love for her manifested itself in many ways. For years our laughter filled the room and I marveled at the sparkle in her eye when she looked at me. Her acceptance of me freed me to be myself, and as I opened my heart to her something unexpected happened. I began to write. A quick note. A message. A long letter. Letter after letter, I wrote my heart upon the page. Easily a million words later, writing became the vehicle that carried my love forward.

Now, she is gone and once again, I stand at the glass, looking in. The view from the window carried a new element. Pain. I can no longer tell myself the warmth isn’t real. After feeling the warmth of inside, the window doesn’t just feel cold. It feels like the absence of heat. A place devoid of movement or energy, frozen in time. Her light was a private sun that bent the gravity of my world around itself. Even the silence glowed. With the setting of that sun, the darkness is totalitarian. Night stretches endlessly, not black but dense, as if the air itself has thickened into ash and velvet and ruin. As I look upon the connection and warmth of the restaurant, I am left with one irrefutable fact — an absolute truth.

I am alone.

The weight I carry now seems unbearable. But I have been left with something more than when I could convince myself the warmth wasn’t real. My words. They continue to flow and I scurry to jot them down before they too are lost to the darkness. The need to be witnessed does not stop because the witness is unavailable. I keep writing anyway, but, now, I am practicing being seen by someone who can no longer see me. I keep trying to make the interior legible, even to no one. It must be so. This life doesn’t make sense if I don’t write.

Perhaps those at the table will read my words...

and look up.