Wordless thoughts

     I wake up with my heart beating fast, I look at my mobile, four am, of course it is. I turn my pillow for it to be colder, but no matter how many times I turn, I cannot fall asleep, I can’t stop thinking about what I have to say to Joanne, tomorrow-no, today I tell her how I feel, after years of being too much of a nervous coward, I’ve set my mind into it; and let’s not start with the dreaded conversation with my parents who have always found such comfort in our geographical closeness, but after the Paris Gallery offered me a job, I can’t possibly stay in London, oh God, what am I going to do? Oh and that reminds me, fuck, how am I going to tell my sister what I saw two days ago? She will be crushed, and she just returned from her honeymoon.

        I groan into the pillow, noticing that my stomach has started turning, no, there’s no way I’ll fall asleep now. I turn on the lights, might as well get the day started, I run to the restroom, nervousness has never been good for my stomach, which is inconvenient because I’m always nervous. I take a shower and spend almost an hour deciding what to wear, it’s difficult, I need something that fits into love confession, moving away news and crushing a heart news, oh and I will punch you in the face warning. I decide wearing black, classy and most of all, neutral, with a white shirt, I don’t want to look like I just got out of a funeral.

        I look at myself in the mirror, trying to get my always-messy hair into a descent something, I miserably fail, but not to worry, a hat will do it, besides if there is something I can pull off is a hat. I reach to grab a black one and put it over my head. Perfect.

I take a deep breath and start practicing all the speeches I am to deliver today. I look at everything I’m doing through my reflection and start over when I notice my foot rapidly tapping on the floor, that cannot happen, it shows that I have no confidence. I keep practicing, okay, everything great so far, no, what are you doing, John? Quit playing with your damn fingers, look into the mirror, smile, stand up straight, there it is, now that my body language looks okay I keep going, so far so good, no, forget it I’m hopeless, what the hell was that smile? I start over and over and over until everything is crafted to perfection, every movement, every word, every syllable, every expression. Bravo John, you’ve outdone yourself, the speeches shouldn’t be so hard now.

        I look at my clock, eight am, how? What? How did I spend four hours? I shake my head, it isn’t important, in fact, it proves me that I was right about starting my day so early. I walk to my kitchen, where I try to have breakfast, but I only manage to get an apple and a tea in my stomach without barfing. I take my briefcase from the living room and start heading towards work.

        I take shaky breaths with every step, trying to walk as slowly as possible, Joanne is there waiting for me, but no matter how slowly I walk, I arrive in less than ten minutes, I live too close. I enter the tall steel building, God, I will not be missing this place, all I do is pass numbers and boring stuff. I look around looking for Joanne, she works on the first floor, so it shouldn’t be hard. There she is, her dark curls are bouncing and her hips moving with every step, I gasp, she is wearing a tight red dress, nice way to make me even more nervous, she turns around for me to see her big eyes looking across the room, her red lips are curved up smiling, teeth and all, if perfection were a person, it would be her, no doubts, her presence is like the sun in a cold morning or like a rainbow or basically everything wonderful the world has to offer.

        I take a deep breath and stand-up straighter, confidently walking towards her. “Joanne! Good morning!” I greet her.

        She diverts her gaze and turns to look at me, at me, John, she’s still wearing that smile, giving it to me, like a gift. “Good morning! John, right?” she points out, placing a hand on her hips.

        My heart starts beating incredibly fast, she know my name, she know who I am. No, stop tapping your foot, John. “Yeah, that’s me, hey, do you think I could talk to you for a sec?” I ask, keeping my body as still as possible, my eyes taking her in, how can anyone look so ethereal just standing there.

        “Yeah, sure, what’s up, John?” Joanne asks me, oh good, she still wants to talk.

        I start reciting my speech, making sure that not even my pinkie is dancing around, I just want to tell you how beautiful you are, “how perfect,” I start.

        “I’m sorry?” she asks me, a confused expression on her visage.

        What did she not understand? I just told her she was beautiful. “Yes, that, what you heard, that’s what I think, and I want to date.” I explain to her, she shouldn’t be confused.

        “I’m really sorry John, I don’t think I quite understand.” She mutters, looking around the edifice.

        Is that woman just faking she doesn’t understand? Really? Joanne, I think you’re the definition of my ideal woman, you’re funny and interesting and with time I think “I can fall in love with you.” I tell her just like the way I practiced in the mirror.

        Joanne looks baffled. “What do you mean you love me?” she inquires, looking slightly agitated.

        “That’s not what I said! I said that maybe in time, if we go out or something!” I snap, annoyed with her.

        “Yeah, goodbye, John.” She trails off turning around and quickly walking away.

        How dares she? “I pour my heart out and that’s how you fucking act?” I yell, fuming, what a stupid woman, there’s no reason why she wouldn’t love me, I talked about feelings and was respectful and I think she’s beautiful, she should respond, not walk away.

I throw my briefcase to the floor, slamming the lock in the process, what the hell? I was going to quit anyways, I storm off the building, I don’t deserve such treatment. I take the bus, annoyed and head towards my parent’s house.

I knock on their big oak door and a few seconds later my mother answers, smiling when she looks at me. “Oh John dear! How are you?” she excitedly greets, oh God, she’s going to be crushed when she hears about this, I’ve always been her favourite.

“Hey, ma.” I greet entering the house, installing myself inside the tacky living room, my father is such a push-over when it comes to decorating. He is sitting on the settee, of course smoking a cigar, watching the morning news.

“Good morning, pa.” I tell him, sitting down across from him and my mother.

“What brings you here, John? Finally decided to pay your parents a visit?” he asks, putting the cigar down.

“Yeah, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” May as well get right to the point.

“What is it, John, is everything okay?” My mother asks me, concern in her voice,

“I’m moving, got a job in the Gallery of Paris, won’t be in London anymore.” I briefly relate, crossing my right leg.

“Well, congratulations, son.” My father says, that’s it? No I’m going to miss you, no nothing?

“Oh, that’s great, darling! You’ll finally do what you love!” My mother exclaims, clapping her hands.

“That’s it?” I demand, angry at their reaction, am I not important in their lives?

“What do you mean John?” My mother asks me in a pathetically soothing voice.

“What do I mean? I’m leaving, I will no longer be here in a week and that’s all you say?” I question them, getting up the couch.

“Well, what else do you want us to say, son?” My fathers inquires, huh, as if he didn’t know.

“Oh, yeah, play like you’re clueless, I always knew you didn’t care about me,” I say pointing to him, “but you,” I continue pointing to my mother, “I thought you cared, but it’s clear you don’t!” I storm off, slamming the door in the process; me, who was going to miss them so dearly, clearly won’t be missed, I don’t even know why I bothered to tell the news, should’ve just left like that.

I walk over to the next house and furiously knock, just one last thing to do. Peter answers the door. “John! My man, how are you?” The bastard greets, I just brush him off, entering pushing him away.

“Gosh, John, don’t push my husband around like that!” Mimi exclaims, leaving the kitchen, she has always been such a bossy girl.

“Don’t worry about it, baby, that’s how we get along, isn’t that right, Owen?” he exclaims.

“Don’t you fucking dare to talk to me, or my sister again!” I threaten, giving him my best death glare.

Mimi grabs my shoulder. “John! What’s going on?” She demands, furious.

“Oh, why don’t you ask your husband!” I snap, pointing at that cheater.

“What’s going on, Pete?” Mimi asks him, heavily frowning.

“I don’t know, baby. John, is everything okay?” Peter asks me.

“Oh stop playing to be a fool, you know exactly what I’m talking about, fucker!” I howl, violently pointing at his chest.

“John! How dare you? If you keep treating my husband that way, I’m going to have to ask you to leave!” She crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her heel against the wooden floor.

I mean, I’m just trying to help her, Peter was snogging with a Spanish girl at the bar a couple of days ago, not me. “Oh, okay, I get it Mimi, you’d rather take that buffoon’s word over mine! I was just trying to help, goodbye!” I announce, my blood boiling.

“Maybe if you told me what the hell are you talking about, John, I’d consider your opinion, but since all you do is yell,” she trails off, slamming her fist on the table beside her. Does she really think she has the right to be mad at me, the one person trying to save her from this fake relationship? Hell no.

“Goodbye Mimi, don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I holler, heading out the open door.

I keep shaking my head all the way home. What went wrong? I practiced it all. It was perfect, I was perfect, but no, it can’t possibly my fault, no one takes me seriously and they will pay for that, I was simply doing them all a favour.

I really do wish this week had passed quicker, but it doesn’t matter, I finally am here, Paris, a new place where I will find people who will actually listen to me. I put my best smile on and walk into the Paris Gallery, the smell of paint invading my senses, oh yes, this smells like home.

I walk over the offices, where the woman who interviewed me greets me. “Monsieur Owen, what are you doing here?” The woman asks me in a very marked French accent, God, these people don’t know how to express themselves in English.

“Hello, what do you mean? This is my first day as the gallery’s art handler.” I explain, she must be confused.

She looks at me bewildered. “Um, non, monsieur, the job belongs to madame Char.” She tells me.

I shake my head, keeping my smile on. “No, that can’t be right, you told me I got the job.” I argue.

“Non, monsieur Owen, you just assumed you got the job, but I’m sorry it is madame Char the one who starts today, good day.”