Best Left

I unwrapped the book from the plastic cover that he had thoughtfully returned it in, and upended it into my hand. The hard edges of it bruised my palm slightly as it slid out unexpectedly quickly.
It was a novel by one of my favourite authors, bought in hardcover because I never have the patience to wait for his books to be released in the cheaper paperback before buying them.

I particularly enjoyed the way the author had written this novel, like a jigsaw, or a quilt, seemingly separate stories from different characters, different times, slowly building up an overall picture, filing in the gaps of previous stories, creating more questions for the next one.

I had lent him this book, knowing he hadn’t been hugely impressed with this author’s work in the past. I hoped these stories, this story, might finally show him how this author touched me, how I could relate to his isolated, awkward characters, to the sense of stoicism in their gritty lives. I had recently learnt that the author was the child of a policeman. I wondered if that connection also reached out to me through his writing.

I had lent him this book hoping he might see a little more of me, might become curious to know a little more of me. It was a futile hope, and I was well aware of that… unrequited, and that was the only thing that made sense between us.

I was willing to take the scraps of friendship that were offered. They were enough. It would save us both from the humiliation of my exposing myself any more than I already probably had.

The book had a card in it, marking a page. I wondered if he’d been able to read any more than where the postcard paused the story. The card was a generic invitation to an exhibition of printmakers in North Sydney. Coincidences. I had once known a woman, an editor, who had left her career to focus permanently on her printmaking, and she had helped establish this group who were now exhibiting. Julia. I wondered if she would have work showing there still.

I became curious to see if he had left any more snippets of himself between the pages. My voyeuristic appetite smacked its lips at the possibilities.

I flicked through the heavy pages, and a sheet of folded paper fell from the back sleeve. Putting the betraying book down, I bent and picked up the white sheet from the floor. Unfolding it, there was a printout of an email that I had sent to him some time earlier. He had written, or more accurately, hurriedly scrawled some notes on it.

The email was about a dream I had. I had typed it straight out as I recalled it the following morning, and sent it out, verbatim, to friends to see what they thought it might have meant. It was something we did back then. Or something I did, anyway, and encouraged my friends to share. I was still tentative about writing things at that state, and sharing these dreams seemed a way of spreading the wings of possible story ideas.

I read the email I had sent out.

I had a dream...
and in my dream, my 'ideal me' was walking on holiday on an island. I know it was an island because I had a map, a bit like those old treasure maps, or the kind of maps you get in fantasy books.
On the map we were travelling from the north to the south... and we were at a weir or dam of some sort. On the ledge were big black dangerous 'funnel web' like spiders. They were just sitting there sunning themselves. Somehow I knew that this dam protected this side of the island from all the bad things on the other side. But the spiders suddenly got caught by an overflow of the dam and were washed into the river. This should have seemed a bad thing, but it wasn't.
My friend and I were walking along a path beside the river, past the weir, along the edge of the lakes, and it seemed like an old island, sunny but European in some way, cobbledstone squares and old buildings.
We walk up to a pub in one town down south, a harbour town, and people are seated at tables around the corner pub... it is a sharp angle and there are doors that walk straight from the footpath up 2 steps and then you're at the bar. There are locals sitting at the bar, but it is friendly and light. I walk in and the person behind the bar looks obviously Australian, he is blonde and tanned and a bit rugged and yeah ok a spunk in a nicely unselfconscious sort of way. I see they are using large, cone-like glasses, so I ask for a schooner... then laugh and say ok, whatever the local equivalent is, of the preferred house beer. He fills up a glass full of a very light, golden, sparkling liquid, and smiles at my Australian accent.
I then step outside to meet my travelling friend (male but very indistinct) and I am very happy.

Throughout it, he had circled where I had written ‘we’ and in the margins there were questions. Does we = you and me? Spiders = fears. Water = emotions. Is the travelling companion someone else or is it still me?

I was mortified. He had thought the dream was about him and me. About an ‘us’. Reading through the email now, weeks, maybe months after it had been dashed out and set off, I could see the light in which he had read it, and the notes he had taken, querying, made even more sense. I could not have imagined that interpretation when I sent it, though, and to think he had thought I was making some attempt at… at what? Seduction? Flirtation? The dream hadn’t been about him. There wasn’t anyone identifiable in my dream. It had been about me, and my potential to overcome my fears. The people in it were just props.

I had dreamt about him before, though. Just once. The dream had been just a glimpse. His warmth as I kissed his smooth freckled forehead. Waking and recalling that dream had made me blush. There was more intimacy in that kiss than if it had been a full sex dream, and even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew that it was him. I felt awkward and guilty for days for having that dream. And I would never have told him about it. It was far too personal.

To now see that he had misinterpreted this email, the whole reasoning behind my sending it, and knowing that after writing down the notes of what he thought it meant, that he had never mentioned it to me, never asked if he was wrong in his presumptions, it became yet another good reason for me to withdraw from that group of friends. The fact was that I was fonder of him than I wanted to be. The fact was that I knew he wasn’t even that interested in a friendship with me that extended beyond the occasional exchange of recommended books.

I looked down at the white paper, so neatly folded, and wondered if he had intended me to find it. I slowly tore it up and took my final step away from him. I doubt he even noticed.