Member-only story
an Art of Dying fragment
We had left Hakan’s apartment. The evening has yet to darken. It is warm, autumn knocking on the door, but summer selfishly refusing to let go. A car or two down the street, the sound of a bus gearing down. Birds still talk. It is very pleasant. The air itself knows how to spell that word: p-l-e-a-s-a-n-t.
Eric and Gretha are walking up ahead. Ten yards or so. Eric is tall, he takes long strides, Gretha (so much shorter) takes many quick short steps beside him to keep up. Eric is stoned. I don’t remember whether Gretha is as well. Possibly not. Lisa and I follow. I am definitely stoned; Lisa, on my left, definitely is not. Our steps are more synchronized.
Tentatively, I put my left arm around Lisa’s shoulders. She shakes it off, still smoldering about me smoking hashish on this night of all nights — she does see this as a betrayal of my Light Experience, I sense this even though I do not have the courage to admit that she’s right or even acknowledge her disapproval.
I remove my arm and try to say something ameliorating. Not sure I come up with anything. So, silently, we walk side by side. I’m trying to ignore Lisa’s soundless but oh-so-loud condemnation. I’m trying to ignore my own soundless and not-quite-as-loud condemnation. Mixed success.
