We are the People

Several days passed. April was nearing its end. After the kitchen incident, another stretch of gray, unremarkable days followed. Once upon a time, every day had been an adventure, filled with discovery and bubbling curiosity. If only I — choking on the monotony — had known how much excitement lay ahead…

Monotony? Sure. Boredom? Not a chance. When interest seeps into everything you do, saturating every encounter— that’s great, fantastic even. But when that interest latches onto one specific person… it’s a peculiar feeling. I treasured every minute spent near her. I strained to catch every word she said, no matter who it was meant for. I tried to intercept every glance. I could spot her instantly in a crowd. I welcomed that now-beloved scent right after greeting her — greeting her with a joy in my voice that surprised even me.

The person at the center of the spiral. Also, the one to my left. Sitting beside her, I sank into a pleasant, weightless depth. Fragments of thoughts flashed through my mind— fleeting scenarios, fully fleshed-out episodes of varying plausibility. It was as if they were threaded onto the spiral. Behind me lay memories, thoughts, words, and some "variations on a theme." Ahead — only thoughts, conjectures, and fantasies. Some of these would likely happen soon, regardless of what I did; others would require my direct involvement; some were just the feverish inventions of an overstimulated mind; and a few were pure daydreams.

I love to daydream. Maybe too much. Fantasies… No. However much I wanted to, I wouldn’t let myself cross the line — not while the iron hammer of reason pounded in my head.

Of course, the image I’d constructed had flaws. Like her overly loud laughter. Moments of sharpness and impulsiveness. Sometimes even a lack of restraint. Her appearance? I couldn’t compare. I’d be too subjective. People say looks don’t matter. I disagree. They do. At first. Then, automatically, they become perfect.

There was one genuinely unpleasant moment. The day after the kitchen-sofa debacle. For some reason, I told her about it. Broke the golden rule: My problems and pain stay inside me.

Of course, I spared the gory details. Just said Batya came home drunk and yelled some ugly things. And then — I saw it in her eyes. Pity. Compassion? Sympathy? Or just plain pity for me? "You’re pathetic." Hard to imagine a crueler finishing blow. I felt like I’d ripped off a scab, and now the wound was bleeding again.

It wasn’t about the flaws — not denying them, not covering them up. I acknowledged them, trying to "soften the verdict" without downplaying them.

"Not downplaying? So you can’t judge her looks, but you’re fine dissecting her personality? Cut it out. Forget about objectivity." — My inner critic piped up again.

"I’ve always been my own lawyer. I’ve only defended and accused myself. I’ve only been interested in myself. Think— have I ever made excuses for anyone else?"

"No. You didn’t excuse. You didn’t accuse. You never did anything sincerely. All those questions — ‘How are you?’ ‘What’s up?’ ‘Need help?’ — what drove you to ask them? Politeness, right? You didn’t care about the answers. You didn’t care how the people around you were doing."

"Exactly. But now, when I ask her ‘How are you?’ — I’m genuinely happy to hear she’s fine. I greet her with real joy. I feel alive, connected, invested, if you will. I listen with full attention. I speak with my whole self."

"Heh. And this is just the beginning."

"The beginning of what—"

I stumbled. Steps appeared underfoot, and I nearly tumbled down the staircase. So lost in thought, I hadn’t even noticed leaving the school.

The clouds thickened. The snow had melted completely, but the trees and bushes still stood skeletal, their branches black and bare. A cold wind picked up. Birds chirped anxiously in the distance.

She was walking behind me. I turned.

"Well… see you tomorrow?" — A slightly sly but joyful smile played on her lips.

"Definitely. Bye!" — I smiled back.

Once again, I wished we walked the same way home…

The wind grew stronger, shaking the slender young trees in the schoolyard and along the nearby houses. A flash of lightning. Then thunder rolled in, as if approaching from far away — not a single boom, but a strumming, like someone plucking the strings of a colossal celestial guitar.

And then came rain. The first rain of the year.