| Jason Gurley |
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Breathing Room She asked, "Do you ever have this feeling that suddenly, in the middle of this big whirlwind life, heaven has just opened up and given you a little taste of its wonders? Almost like someone up there knows exactly how it feels to be just where you are and all they want to do is give you a break, some breathing room." She was very serious, sitting there on the splintery railing of the wooden bridge. She wasn't looking at me, but over the water, where you could see the cityscape over the bay, way out there, entombed in a wall of fog that hung about the buildings like a cotton skirt. I thought about her question for a moment. I said, "Not really." She smiled that smile. "That's how I feel today," she breathed. "I don't know the first thing about you, except what you told me. And that's perfectly okay. I don't want to know everything about you, and that's okay. I keep thinking about how you looked when I saw you in that tree, how you looked so at peace with yourself and I thought about how you must know exactly where you're going and how you're going to get there." She looked at me thoughtfully. "Something just told me I had to talk to you. I didn't know why, but I do now." I didn't say anything. With a blink, she asked, "What are you thinking?" I was thinking all sorts of things: that I didn't know her name; that I didn't know how to respond to what she was saying about me; that I suddenly felt as though I'd been wrapped in a mattress and told that I'd never escape. So when I answered her, I just said words without thinking. I don't remember what I said, but I went on for awhile, and it was bad. When I finished, I stood there, holding her gaze carefully. I put my hands in my jacket and turned my body to block a wind that gusted across the water. She sat there for a moment and stared at me through eyes that were hollow and vacant, with a mouth that hinged open slightly. I could see her teeth. Then she inhaled shakily and turned to the water, her blank eyes shifting away from me. "I'm sorry," she said finally. Her hair was swept up by the breeze and it blew away from her face, billowing like a shredded flag. In a brief second, she was beautiful in a way that I hadn't noticed: the hair, the way her eyes blinked back wetness that glimmered in the pale sunlight, the way her dress clung to her curves under the wind's instruction. And somehow by thinking these things about her, I began to find myself angry with the voice that had said those words to her. I started to open my mouth, then hesitated and stared at my boots instead. I felt her look at me again, and she whispered again, "I'm sorry," in a sad voice. What I did then was worse than the things I'd said. I found myself looking objectively at the two of us, like a guy in a movie theater watching Woody Allen struggling to get his own dialogue right, and I laughed and laughed. I couldn't stop. This girl without a name climbed off of the railing and walked away without a word, her head low beneath the tangle of blond hair. I watched her go, and my laughter choked and died in my throat. I wondered if she would turn around. I watched until she was gone, and she never turned. I stood there on that stupid bridge for an hour, leaning on the railing until I had creases in my arms deeper than the Grand Canyon. I stood there and watched as the sky grew dark and San Francisco lit up like a fuse, patchworks of lights flickering on in streaks between the buildings, peeking through the fog that rolled slowly toward me. It began to rain gently. There in the rain, I stood there, and for the first time, I felt it: for the first time I felt like someone was granting me a brief flash of contentment, like a moment of heaven in the midst of confusion, just like she had said. I stood in the rain as the fog swelled and swallowed me, and the moment was beautiful, and then it ended. |
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