ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Words Unwritten

Vignette - Words Unwritten
Dramatis Personae Eric
In Absentia	2013-12-11 Takes place immediately after Logs:Dumping Ground
Location <WES> The Grindstone - Salem Center
Eric's mouth hangs slightly open, eyes fixed on the door for several moments before he holds up a hand, vocal chords picking up their responsibilities long enough to try and form words. Wait, stop, Shane - whatever word it might have been dies almost as quickly as it came, a half-croak, half-cough. Closing his mouth with a soft clack of teeth, Eric stands up to head for the doors, but he gets no farther than a marionette with cut strings. One step, and then he is stilling, freezing, falling back heavily into his seat a moment later with a thud and a wince. His head turns slowly back towards the splash of coffee on the other side of the table, dark liquid slowly seeping into the white paper envelope, into the paper mocking up at him. Congratulations, it says, hatefully, as the words bleed together in his eyes just as they do on the page, clear and brown mixing in from either side. Blinking, Eric takes in a slow breath and reaches into his pocket to tug out his cell phone. A flick, a tap, and a blank text sits open. ( Eric --> Shane ): Shane, come back. ( Eric --> Shane ): Let's talk about this some more. ( Eric --> Shane ): I'm sorry, Shane. ( Eric --> Shane ): I do know what's going on with you. ( Eric --> Shane ): I want to know what's going on with you. ( Eric --> Shane ): What's going on, Shane? Eric discards each in turn, as soon as he has written them, casting about for words which won't form. Instead, the cursor sits there at the beginning of the line, each blink as if a chanting, chastising carol, a reminder of words unwritten. He turns off the phone and sticks it back in his pocket. Slowly, movements as slow as if carrying the finest china, Eric's fingers move to pull napkins from the dispenser, one, two, three. He leans forward, sopping the coffee up with a slow circle, turning the paper in his hand to clean it off. Small circles, one, two, three, sweeping across the surface of the table. The rest he picks up too - cup and letter and the envelope, and all are carried to the trash. The cup and napkins are thrown out without thought, and the envelope. Congratulations, the letter mocks, dripping onto his hand, onto his shoes. It joins the others. Outside, Eric's breath blows smoke into the cool air even before the cigarette is lit between his lips, eyes cast up to watch grey clouds as they roll across the sky, boots crunching against cold, frosted ground as he steps back to his car. He doesn't drive anywhere, sitting in the front seat, window rolled down, smoke drifting into the air. One thumb pages slowly through a list of names on his phone, picking one to display its number before backing out into the list of names. Allison, Andy, Bill, Ben, each are passed over. Charles, Christian, Chelsee, Doug, Dusk. Names upon names, each examined, considered and discarded in turn. It is hours before Eric makes it back into the City, winding his way back through long highways and trafficked thoroughfares until he returns the car to its rightful home at a garage in Queens. It is almost another hour, still, before he arrives at his destination: Central Park, north side. The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. He makes his way down a wooded path, then through a fence to sit on the grass at the water's edge, looking across the surface of the water. Still water, shining, dark as ink and cold as ice. Eric sits there at the edge of the water, staring and smoking, as the sun begins to set in the sky. Yellows turning to oranges, oranges to reds. And as the sky slowly turns towards night over the city that never sleeps, Eric stands and dives.