Nothing and Everything
A Perplexing Marcato
Conor sighed in relief, sinking down the bathroom door. There were times when people overwhelmed him as they jostled past in either direction, their voices loud and brash. He felt like an outsider, an observer, watching, shell-shocked as the world passed him by. He wasn’t real. Her wasn’t there. He was only a sketch, a hologram: flickering, quiet, invisible. His breathing slowed and his heartbeats came more constantly, as the voices and footsteps on the other side of the door faded into an unintelligible lull. Comfort. Tight spaces and compressed air. Conor ran his fingers across his forehead, wiping back a strand of hair.
But then there was him. Gerard. Just looking at the man pulled Conor miles and miles out of his comfort zone, away from everything he knew. Logic told him to hide away, in corners, in bathrooms, in basements, anywhere. But a growing instinct buried deep in his brain told him to close his eyes and jump. To feel the rush of wind against his face, to hear the splash as he hit the churning water. To be free. Free, the very word was frightening.
*******
“What did you say your name was?” Janet surveyed the man before her, deciding that his hair was too greasy, his shirt too wrinkled, his eyes too wild.
“Gerard.”
Janet nodded, pursing her lips and hitching up her cocktail dress. “So, how do you know Conor?”
“Jeff’s wedding. Jeff’s an old friend of mind… When I was in art school–“
“So, you’re an artist.” It was more of a statement than a question. Janet’s dislike for this man was growing by the second.
“Yeah, I guess.” It was something in the way he carried himself, something behind those sarcastic smirks and glinting eyes. Sly, thought Janet for lack of a better word. At the mention of art school, Gerard grabbed a martini off the tray of a circulating waiter. The waiter extended his tray to Janet. She shook her head. Gerard downed his. Fast. Too fast, decided Janet. The man was talking again.
“Conor, his music, it’s really, just… amazing.”
“I know.” Short and to the point. That’s how Janet was. She turned her head towards the kitchen, taking a step backwards in a dismissive gesture. Gerard didn’t catch on.
“So, Jeff tells me you drum for some of his tracks. That’s really–“
“Cool? Great? Yes, I know.” Janet was losing interest, her eyes scanning the party, wondering where Conor had gotten to. He was like a little kid sometimes, wandering into his own worlds, never thinking about the people he left behind…
“Well, Conor’s a really great guy.” This man would not shut up. “You’re really lucky,” even as he said them, the words sounded forced, insincere. They hung there, awkwardly in the air. “Yes,” said Janet, shooting Gerard a triumphant, condescending look as she flounced off across the living room, “yes, I suppose I am lucky, very lucky.”
If she had bothered to look back, she would have seen a cloud of anger racing over Gerard’s face.
But then there was him. Gerard. Just looking at the man pulled Conor miles and miles out of his comfort zone, away from everything he knew. Logic told him to hide away, in corners, in bathrooms, in basements, anywhere. But a growing instinct buried deep in his brain told him to close his eyes and jump. To feel the rush of wind against his face, to hear the splash as he hit the churning water. To be free. Free, the very word was frightening.
*******
“What did you say your name was?” Janet surveyed the man before her, deciding that his hair was too greasy, his shirt too wrinkled, his eyes too wild.
“Gerard.”
Janet nodded, pursing her lips and hitching up her cocktail dress. “So, how do you know Conor?”
“Jeff’s wedding. Jeff’s an old friend of mind… When I was in art school–“
“So, you’re an artist.” It was more of a statement than a question. Janet’s dislike for this man was growing by the second.
“Yeah, I guess.” It was something in the way he carried himself, something behind those sarcastic smirks and glinting eyes. Sly, thought Janet for lack of a better word. At the mention of art school, Gerard grabbed a martini off the tray of a circulating waiter. The waiter extended his tray to Janet. She shook her head. Gerard downed his. Fast. Too fast, decided Janet. The man was talking again.
“Conor, his music, it’s really, just… amazing.”
“I know.” Short and to the point. That’s how Janet was. She turned her head towards the kitchen, taking a step backwards in a dismissive gesture. Gerard didn’t catch on.
“So, Jeff tells me you drum for some of his tracks. That’s really–“
“Cool? Great? Yes, I know.” Janet was losing interest, her eyes scanning the party, wondering where Conor had gotten to. He was like a little kid sometimes, wandering into his own worlds, never thinking about the people he left behind…
“Well, Conor’s a really great guy.” This man would not shut up. “You’re really lucky,” even as he said them, the words sounded forced, insincere. They hung there, awkwardly in the air. “Yes,” said Janet, shooting Gerard a triumphant, condescending look as she flounced off across the living room, “yes, I suppose I am lucky, very lucky.”
If she had bothered to look back, she would have seen a cloud of anger racing over Gerard’s face.