Black Lines

It was just a few black lines on a white cocktail napkin. Or what had once been a white cocktail napkin. It had faded, marked by time. It had been folded and unfolded. It had wiped away a tear or two. There was a stain left behind in one corner, sticky and dry at the same time. But the written lines were unblemished. Simple and neat. The pen that made them hadn’t bled as it marked out a path for me. If I was only brave enough to follow them. It should be so easy. A left turn here. A straightaway. A right turn there. 

A starting point and an ending point.

A journey in between. 

But as I stared at the lines on the napkin held in my trembling hand, the doubt welled up inside of me. I could feel it rising, threatening to choke me. I pushed it down for now, but it would be back. It was always back. 

I looked at the black lines again. The point wasn’t the number of lines or even their direction. The point was what I would find along the way. 

Someone bumped into me as I sat there, momentarily breaking the spell that a few lines written on a white cocktail napkin had over me. I should have been perturbed but I couldn’t muster the feeling. The muttered apology came. I didn’t acknowledge it. If it didn’t exist between what lay between those few black lines, it didn’t matter anymore. At least not for me. 

I knew I was on the precipice. I think that much should be obvious. If I stuck one foot out I would fall. That should also be obvious. What wasn’t obvious, at least not to me, was if I wanted to fall. The lines represented the moment when everything about my life could change. It could lead to a future or it could lead to an end. They weren’t the same thing but either way, everything would be different. 

I stood. I sat back down and the moment of confidence passed. The two options warred within me, mixing and swirling in a terrible mess of indecision. 

Stay or go? Go or stay?

Follow the lines? Throw the napkin away?

I had tried to throw it away before. It hadn’t worked. 

Beads of sweat formed above my lip and I licked them away, the taste salty on my tongue. I decided that it was what fear would taste like. Or maybe what hope would taste like. I didn’t know anymore. 

“Do you want another one, sweetheart?” the bartender asked nodding to my empty glass. 

“No,” I replied sharply. I didn’t have time for meaningless questions.

I blew out a breath not realizing that I had been holding it. I normally know what I have to do. But this was different. 

Just a few black lines separated me. 

Stay or go? Go or stay?

Go. Stay.

Two little words. Black lines. White napkin. Black and white. No gray to be seen. 

In a fit of anger, I crumbled the napkin up in my fist, my knuckles white, ready to dispose of it. It wasn’t the first time I had done this. My heart pounded. My breath caught in my throat. I paused again in indecision, in remorse and smoothed it back out, laid it out before me. I laid myself bare at the same time. 

Despite the violence against them, the lines hadn’t smudged. Even after all this time. They couldn’t be erased or destroyed. It should have been comforting but it wasn’t. They stretched out in front of me, smooth and straight, unfettered and confident in their purpose. 

Each line was mocking me.

I turned the napkin over. It didn’t help. The lines were burned into my brain. Imprinted onto my heart. 

Go. Stay. 

What would I find if I followed the lines? Would I be brave enough to face it?

And that was it. That was the main problem with those neat black lines. What it all came down to. Was I brave enough? 

Are any of us brave enough to face the answers at the end? The questions?

Those black lines could lead anywhere. For me they lead to one place. A place that I had always wanted to go. And now that I had the way in front of me, a map to follow, directions laid out, I didn’t know if I could go there. I had wanted it for so long that the wanting had replaced the hope of getting. 

Go. Stay. 

I closed my eyes, the sounds around me fading away. It was only my breath now. In and out. It filled my lungs. Sustained me. 

Go. Stay. 

The words pulsed through my veins, replacing my blood, cycling through my heart, whispering to my soul. 

I was only those two words. I was only those few black lines. 

I stood on the edge and imagined myself going over it. 

There would be no going back. 

If anyone cared to look at that moment, all they would have seen was a girl, sitting in a bar holding a crumpled white napkin with a few black lines, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

Would someone watching realize what they were witnessing? 

Did they know the power those black lines held?

I was done fighting it.

I breathed out again and this time I let go of the doubt. And while I expected emptiness in its place, all I felt was peace. It settled into my weary bones and I knew. 

I knew I was stronger than those few black lines on a white napkin. 

I was stronger than the agony. I was stronger than the fear. I was stronger than the wanting. 

Go. Stay. 

Go. 

My eyes snapped open and I stood, letting the napkin fall to the floor. I didn’t need it anymore. I had never needed it. I knew where those black lines would lead.

And I was finally ready to follow them. 

I picked up my phone and dialed the numbers that those black lines mapped out, the ones that would lead me home.