Happy Ending

1-dim-lit-room-patrick-raffaelo

The room was designed minimally. A double-size bed was placed at the left-end corner of the room, adjacent to the wall the door was placed on. Across the bed and next to the window was standing a work table with sheets of paper filled with formulas and equations lying haphazardly, a laptop tilted toward the top left corner of the table whirring mild noise with a pdf open on its screen. He had his hand at the right side of his skull brushing off his tousled hair and his scarred ear with eyes bloodshot due to the intense focus on the material on the screen. His mind was oscillating between the formal abstractions on the screen and unmarked, uncategorized, declassified bulk of somatic disarray. The ashtray was brimming with ash and the cup was stained with the immense load of coffee it had to bear through the night. His table was cut across diagonally with another table on the right side of the room with a right angle and she was sitting on her lofty chair with her left leg pulled back all the way up to her chest. The scenery was pretty much similar to the other table—lots of papers, two speakers hushing to the end of the world, a laptop and myriad colors of markers scattered to four corners of the table as if a ritual of academic article-reading were taking place. She was biting on the top of her pen as if attempting to draw the last bit of information to bridge the connection between what she has been gobbling up so far and what lies ahead as unconsumed data.

Eons of silence broke with the creaking of the chair, when she turned her head toward him and muttered: “How does this work?” Though the sentence did not contain any content-laden subject or predicate for any clear-cut communication, he gazed toward her side more than meaningfully. “Does not have to work more than it does now”, he replied as if trying to agitate the charged ambiguity in the air. “But it has to be going somewhere” she said, intonating as implicatively as her throat allowed. He frowned and attempted to measure the earnest of this conversational initiation. If he learned one thing in life, it was that these types of conversations do not end well, if protracted with ambivalent feelings and emotions. So he needed to be as clever and as laconic as possible: “Maybe so far we have operated under the illusion that it does and that’s what has gotten us nowhere.” He knew he should not have uttered this without reconsidering first, but the bullets have been sprayed all over the air particles of the room. “But I love you”, she said and got reciprocated immediately: “and I you, too”. They were both smart, so they knew that they hit the juncture of non-communication through words. They employed their gaze to execute the job and sliced through each other. Within nanoseconds, they aligned their understanding of each other and they got back to their work aided by cigarettes and coffee.

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