Tea For One

I know exactly what we’re about to talk about and I don't want to have this conversation. I feel his eyes on me as I stand at the counter, my back to him, waiting for the water to rumble to a boil, the kettle to flick off, the hot water to splash onto the teabag, seep into the leaves, turn everything a deep red-brown. I think about making him a cup but I know he wouldn’t drink it. I know what we’re about to talk about. He knows what we’re about to talk about. At least he’s nice enough to let me make a tea first before he hounds me. 

We make our way outside and sit on the top step of the deck, side by side, looking out over the garden. This is our spot. My eyes roll over the familiarity of it, the lemon tree, the lavender, the gardenia- looking droopy again, I need to find out what’s wrong with it. I feel his eyes on me again, but I avoid his gaze as long as I can, blowing on my tea when I know full well it’s still much too hot to sip and blowing won’t do any good. Finally he sighs. He knows. 

‘I couldn’t do it, Jack,’ I say. 

He looks away. I know he’s disappointed but he doesn't say anything, he doesn’t need to. 

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I say, ‘we talked about this. But you and I, we’re different. You have confidence, I don’t. I’m afraid.’ 

That’s not entirely true. He hates swimming in the ocean, the deep water scares him. And once when the neighbours put up Halloween decorations he wouldn't go that way for a week, even after they took them down, so he’s not always brave. 

‘Be honest,’ I say. ‘We both knew I wouldn’t be able to, I'm just not that kind of person, I'm not ambitious. I get a job and I turn up, I’m grateful for it, I don’t shop around. It just feels so... I don’t know. I just don’t think that’s me.’ 

Eight years I’ve been at my job, and I do it well, know it inside and out. I could do it with my eyes closed. Do I really want to let that go? Start out as the new person again, have to learn new things, practice new ways? Do I need that aggravation? I don't know how I let Jack talk me into it now I come to think of it. I pictured it all day, walking into Janine’s office, giving her my notice, watching her face fall, the disappointment, the let down, the stress at the thought of being one person down, having to find a replacement. I actually got as far as walking into her office. 

Janine was on a call, cheeks pink, her fringe sticking up on one side like she had just brushed a stressed hand through it. She saw me, said ‘Hang on,’ into the phone, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s up?’ she said to me. 

What’s up? 

I'm desperately bored. I’m living with a crushing sense of failure, of disappointment, a touch of shame, an undercurrent of numb shock that this is it, this is what my life is and will continue to be. That’s what’s up. I heard the muffled voice from the phone, fighting for her attention, ‘Hello? Janine?’ 

I panicked. 

‘It's nothing, I’ll come back,’ I said. 

I wont go back, I think Jack and I both know that. Sometimes I wish I was more like him. His contentment, his real belief that everything is going to be ok, it’s all going to work out exactly as it should. Sometimes I catch him looking at me with complete trust, a trust so whole and full that it baffles me. I’m just a nobody, how can he believe in me the way he does? Why cant I believe in me the way he does? 

I can do this job with my eyes closed, that’s true. Sometimes I feel like I do, like I'm sleepwalking through my day, like Tuesday was just like Monday, and Wednesday will be just like Tuesday. Is that what I want? To go through life with my eyes closed? Is that what it’s all about? Isn’t there more to it? 

If Jack worked at my company he’d be running the place by now, he’d be the most popular, that’s for sure. I look sideways at him, study him. His deep brown eyes, his brow completely relaxed, not a crease in sight. He is doing that slow blink, the one where the suns rays are hitting you just right and feel like they’re absorbing into your very being, like you’re melting into yourself, he’s lapping it up. 

Even when Jack does come across a problem, he finds joy in solving it, like it's a game. Everything’s a game to him. He attacks it with relish, and when he solves it, he exudes pride and excitement and cheer. I wish I could find joy in problem solving, not this crippling sense of doom. 

‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘How can you be so content? Nothing bothers you. How can you not be afraid?’ 

Jack looks upward, tracking a swallow darting through the sky. He watches it dip and dart and then swoop out of sight. Swallows don't have these fears, they don't have this crushing sense of failure that paralyses them into inaction. Swallows trust everything will work out, they have to. Without trust, they would live a life of frozen immobility, a life without food, without movement, without purpose. Without trust they perish. They trust because what is life without it? 

‘Bark,’ says Jack. 

I nod. He has a point. He always does. I should be like a swallow. 

‘Bark,’ he says. His face opens into a smile as he pants, tongue lolling. I scratch him behind the ear, the good spot, and sip my tea, finally cool enough. What a bloody know-it-all. 

‘You’re right,' I say. 'Tomorrow I’ll tell her. Thanks mate. You’re a good boy.’