She asked him what she should have been doing this whole time.
The physical space had accumulated so much so between them that plugging the gaps,
the layers of space which can exist between people, was more than each could sustain.
His physical space was small. The lines that drew him out of the house, twenty blocks
to work, to the barber, then back up the three-floor walk up have rarely deviated in the
years that have passed.
It is hard to really say what has been happening, or what was expected to happen,
she not even being sure in her own life, but there seems to be this ultimate agenda
that waits for her consent. Like it is her, the willing, that gets to say begin—
engage in dialogues as a way to prove to oneself that there are moments
outside of the passings of daily life that hold a heightened state of awareness;
a connectedness maybe.
At one point, she always answered the phone when it rang at 4 in the morning,
and even though the accomplice would later confess to the willing that it was better off
when she did not answer (he, generally being embarrassed when she did because
whatever had pushed him to the phone, to the number pad, whatever was chasing him
back and forth through the years, was gone when her voice sounded on the other end)
he secretly missed the reassurance that someone else was alive in the same way he was.
Actually, she wasn’t too sure if she asked him just what she should have been doing.
It was something that she meant to ask, but maybe had never actually annunciated,
afraid maybe that he would have told her to move or to wait or to become devotional—
these things did not retain enough sentiment for her stubborn spirit,
and the accomplice knew all of this, at least she had thought that he did.