Set the World to Mute

Jackie. Jackie Jean Jones, the brunette with the timid eyes and the small hands.

I think you would like her. I met her on the train, of all places, and I asked her if I could draw her. She wasn’t a gorgeous girl, not like she is now, but she was still beautiful. She sat quite still for an hour, just looking openly at me as I drew, and when I was done, she asked if I wanted to get a coffee.

Jackie is my best friend.

Today, it is Sunday, and I have had two days to mull over a tired face with hollow cheeks and sharp brows, abruptly lit up by a little flame. Jackie is taking me shopping, and as I walk next to her, watching her peek through windows of boutiques she would never even acknowledge before, I notice she looks happy.

“You look happy,” I comment.

She turns to me and smile, “Do I?”

I nod and put my arm under hers, “You do," I confirm, "And I like your hair this way.”

Her hand flies to her fresh curls and she twists her neatly plucked brows. “You do?” She grabs a lock between her manicured fingers, looking skeptically at it. “I don’t know. Kind of miss the old look.”

“The old look was a mess,” say giving her a sweet smile.

She grunts. “But it was my mess. And I think Garret liked it better that way.”

“No way,” I scoff, and she gives me an offended look. “What? It really is an improvement. It’s just different, you should embrace it. You never like change. And neither does Garret for that matter.”

“What’s wrong with liking the status quo?”

“You get stuck there until it is the past, and the status quo moves on without you.”

She grunts again, messing up her face as we walk, “Well, aren’t you philosophical.”

I smile and we are silent for a while, and Jackie resumes her peeking. Her eyes are gleaming as skirts and shirts and blazers flash past her vision, but she doesn’t stop. Can’t find what she’s looking for. We cover five boutiques before I speak again.

“Do you think 9 years is a lot?”

It takes ten steps for her to reply. “Depends on in what context.”

I bite my lip, deliberating whether I should voice the words on the tip of my tongue. “In age difference, in a couple, I mean.”

She stops for a heartbeat, but strides on. I can tell she’s curious. “13 to 22, yes, 22 to 31, no,” through the side of my eye I see her looking at me. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

She lets me have that for twenty steps. “Tell me," she says firmly, "Is there a… man?”

I nuzzle into my scarf, hiding the stupid smile tugging at my lips. “Maybe,” I whisper. She doesn’t say anything as we walk, but she’s not looking into the windows anymore. “Ben,” I clarify, “His name is Ben. I work for him.”

“I see, the daddy” she says, and though almost undetectable, I can hear the smile in her voice, “And he’s 31?”

“Mm.”

“And you like him.”

I drag it out, thinking about a tired face with hollow cheeks and sharp brows, abruptly lit up by a little flame, and then grey-green eyes with a distant look. “I don’t know. I think so,” I say, before adding quickly, “Can’t stop thinking about him, see.”

I can literally hear her smile. “I see… This change I like. You never like anyone."

"I know. It's rather uncomfortable."

She laughs out loud at that. "Well, what’s he like?” She asks, mirth still in her voice.

“Sad and old, and tired," I say in a deflated voice, "And distant and unreachable, it seems. Kind. Way too good for me.” I nod as if that should right about sum it up, even if it's not even close.

“I don’t believe that.”

“But he is,” I say quietly, “He’s the kindest man I’ve ever met, Jackie, just by looking into his eyes I know. I could never match that. I could never take away that… tristesse.”

“Sounds like you’re in love to me,” Jackie says simply, and I close my eyes, “Insecurity is usually a good indicator for that. Not feeling like you could ever be good enough for that person.”

We walk in silence as I brood over her words. Jackie waits patiently for me to pick up the thread again, doesn't push. “He doesn’t speak, you know," I say, drawing in a fresh air.

“Oh?”

“Not one word. Not that I’ve heard, at least.”

“Dark and brooding,” she says, and I smile into my scarf again.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

She stops, and takes my hand in hers. “I love you, Alice,” she says.

“I love you too.”

“Just let him see who you are. No one can’t love that.”