To Young Werther

               Ah, fanciful Werther! Wise sufferer! How long since your tragedy? Are my words unfashionable? But you are my confessed confidant and I’ve read few outside of the Maupassant era to distinguish my style. The sorrows of your life accentuate the air around me. I breathe that cool anxiety, following the subtle tingle to my chest. No matter how deep the exhale I cannot dispense this sensation which characterizes those like us. I take the preface of your story to heart dear Werther and your little book is my solitary friend. I wonder if you would understand me? I know you would… But times were so different. Would you have recognized the many forms that love can take? Ah… As I write these words my eyes drift to your story which sits always near me. Yes, you would understand my love. The love of one boy for another. I write you Werther, because I am sad and alone.

               My life has not proceeded as my adolescent aptitude for language would have projected. I am of a new class of citizen called the grocery-bagger slash poet. There are few words unknown to me, French included, and no one can distribute produce into its consensually preferred repository better than I, but put me behind a cash register and my hands shake, the various buttons overwhelm me, and I fold before the leering customer. The perception of a lingering eye suffocates me. An apt analogy when one considers the ferocity that I thrash with to contort myself in such a way where breath is re-assimilated.  In other words, my existence, outside of my room, is characterized by discomfort. My orientation is bewilderment. There is zero opportunity to free myself from the yoke of menial labor.

               Ah, but where can one learn more about life? To be an apparition! Allowed to survey the cosmopolitan market without being observed myself. My gaze naturally perceptive towards love, it gravitates with happiness. In the most pleasant scenes it’s the woman who pushes the shopping cart, for instance. Man, I’ve discovered, is too curious. For him to push the cart is a sign of domestication! Fear not, though, at check out, he takes the bags and places them into the cart. And oh, the simple affections. The tender touch on the small of a partner’s back. Taking one hand in two. A kiss on the cheek. See how much I’ve learned?

               And besides, would I even trade my lowly position if it meant I never had the opportunity of meeting him? Werther… Even if this all means I end my life, it will be with him in my heart. I am a dew drop, only showing life in the quiet morning hours. And he! He is the sun, the light, warmth itself. No wonder I cease to exist around him. How I evaporate. Relinquish all prior form. My eagerness anticipating his arrival despite knowing this inevitability. My love for him…

               He came one day, after the natural course of my shift at work had already rendered me almost inconsolable. When the ever mounting pressure of existence tempered my manners. Essentially, sometime between the second I left my house and the moment I returned. I was bagging groceries quietly, producing no dramatic movements and doing nothing to attract any attention to myself when he entered my line… I felt his eyes on me. My face reddened. I made quick glimpses to confirm my fancy until he noticed my inadequacies and mercifully looked away, allowing me to properly catalogue his features.

               In almost every aspect of appearance, he was my opposite. Short sandy hair that caught the light so well I could nearly smell the fragrant coconut shampoo that I imagined him using. His face was pristine and vibrant, tinted with sunshine. Brown playful eyes carefully hinted a tender melancholy. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed toned forearms, suggesting a supple, lean body, confirmed by his thin frame. His shoulders hung comfortably and he moved with confidence.

               As the line shortened and he approached me, he wore a content, compassionate smile. I felt heavy. I planted my eyes on the ground which had begun to sink beneath me and saw his feet in my peripheral. The air muffled all sound around me until his voice cut through the dense atmosphere with grace. I heard him say, “Excuse me… You don’t happen to have a name do you?” To which my heart dropped, understanding that he was speaking to me. I could not reply. Of all the words that swirled into my mind, none were my name. All I could offer was a glance. Quickly into his eyes I peered before retreating back to the floor. I could see, briefly, that he had smiled. “In any case, I have a name… It’s James.” He said, finishing his transaction with the cashier but looking at me. My heart was beating so resoundingly that I was alarmed for a moment and only heard him after he had left, when I looked up and the market had come back to life. ‘James! His name is James!’ I thought.

               The rest of the day I couldn’t help but smile. I found myself occasionally laughing. Where was I? The market had transformed itself into a playground. I looked around and found only happiness. When I left, the sun had set and the cool wind kissed me. Each step was a leap. I sang songs without knowing the words. Oh, how warm my bed was! Never had my sheets felt so soft, my pillow so comforting. When would I see James again?

               The next day I retained my elation, although my energy level had normalized. I caught my gaze hanging lazily towards the entrance, my pliant limbs resting content on the countertop. Several times I had seen what I imagined to be the silhouette of James rounding the corner and my heart dropped. I would panic, springing upwards, almost running away to find something solitary to occupy myself with before timidly glancing to his perceived whereabouts. In all instances that day I was mistaken; he was entirely absent. Regardless, the sheer rollercoaster of emotions that I was subjected to meant I went home with that affectionate exhaustion characteristic of a day at the fair. I slept satisfied that I had, at least, made it through one day without embarrassing myself in his eyes.

               Standing in my position some days after, bagging groceries as usual, I noticed James, again, in my line. His eyes caught mine and I was so unprepared that I turned awkwardly away. When I sheepishly resumed my duties I noticed him become observant of my labored, shaky movements. I could feel his tender eyes trying to surmise the seriousness of the malady that afflicted me. Fearing an unfavorable impression and that he might begin to identify the cause of my distress, that I loved him, I forced myself to look up and nod to him which I could see relieved his worries. When he came near, despite my best efforts, my gaze fell firmly to the ground. He said, “Have you remembered your name?” to which I reddened. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder and with a gentle squeeze added, “I promise it isn’t on the floor,” before giving me a playful pat on the arm. His touch helped to alleviate my troubles and I looked up and into his eyes, telling him my name. His warm, appreciative look brought such happiness to me. Then, in a low tone I said, “James…” We stood in silence for several moments. He asked if it was okay if he came to my line the next day and I replied yes.

               Thankfully, James’s sincerity tethered my anxiety to reality. Expecting to be unable to sleep, due to nervousness concerning the impending meeting, I was surprised to find my heart somewhat settled. As I pulled the covers over me a tinge of excitement reverberated from my chest to my limbs and with each reverberation I sank deeper into my bed until finally I was asleep. The next day the fated rendezvous took place. It was quick but I was better than my best self and with successful resolve I looked James determinably in the eyes as we spoke pleasantries, only occasionally replenishing my courage with a glimpse at the ground. He asked me if he could come again, the next day, and after informing him that I would not be there, I was pleased to see distress paint his features. I remember the meeting like a dream and recall my actions as being completely outside myself. Who was that moderately calm boy? The one who looked like me but spoke with such a relaxed tenor? Who then asked the brilliant James if he would go for a walk that next morning? I thank whichever spirit of love guided me so resolutely that day, James agreed!

               How?! How did I convince that precious star to rise so early? Knowing my most appealing hours were the very early morning, I managed to sing the sun awake and when he arrived he offered his arm in the cool fog. I admit I had not been so lucky to sleep that night but his touch energized me. I had a few books in my hand of some poetry that I thought he would like, that we could read to each other, and before we locked arms he offered to carry one. And so, he had in his hand a volume of Rimbaud and I had in mine Baudelaire. I shared my intention with him and he laughed in a pleasant way that made me laugh with him before he observed, “but it’s still dark.” “The park is big.” I replied, and we went on our way.

               We moved effortlessly. Bounced around one bend and another. The darkness meant that we were alone. The briskness meant we were close. I occasionally had to remind myself to dislodge my arms, which had wrapped around him as we walked, in order to guide us along the furthest route possible. Who knows what we spoke of? I remember his warmth more than his words. His light breath on my skin. And, as the sun rose and we sat on a park bench, that no one read Rimbaud better than him. His playful brown eyes enacting the very syllables that danced from his lips.

               We approached my house in a serene silence. I offered him something to drink and he gratefully accepted and I gave him a tour of my small abode. When I walked him out… On my front porch we both stopped. And looking into each other’s eyes the day came to life and all that was around me moved. I observed the birds chirping in the distance, the gentle breeze that ruffled the leaves, the subtle twitch on James’s upper lip. And in this lovely new world he stepped in and kissed me.

               Never had such affection been bestowed upon me. The warmth in my chest suggested that I remained in his embrace long after he had gone and I caressed myself caringly, attempting to nurture it as long as possible. I clutched my sleeves where he had clutched. I watched him go with a distinguished longing. Oh! Could he not stay? Was it not as obvious to him, that the current procession had but one destination; a lifetime together? Oh Werther! Was it all a dream?

               My head spun. The drastic motions my heart made, in order to pump blood, were too dramatic. I had to sit. To lie down. I had to drape my arm over my head to steady the planet that I no longer recognized. I could not face him again. Was I not, after all, mistaken? All the turmoil that had been parlayed for the past two days greeted me with a chaotic grin. My conduct was an embarrassment. No one could love me. I was not myself. He had gone.

               I had resigned to be ill for the rest of my life. I refused to work and risk an encounter that would leave me entirely evaporated. I laid, tossing and turning, in my bed for entire days, until one morning I heard a knock at my door. With baited breath I ignored the sound and was alarmed to hear my front door open and see James enter my room with a young lady. Seeing James so suddenly, I imagine I cast a genuinely sick image because he looked frantic and I heard him shout a name, to which the young lady responded and ran to me, feeling my forehead. She sat on my bed with me and grasped my wrist to feel my pulse. Satisfied she leaned her head onto my chest with levity and intertwined her fingers in mine. Speechless, I looked closely at her and noticed she had James’s pretty eyes. “Well!?” said James, urgently. “Feel for yourself,” she replied, and with that James marched over and put a hand on my forehead.

               A sigh of relief escaped his lips and his warm hand lingered pleasantly on my head. He took a chair that was in the corner of the room and placed it more agreeably before sitting back comfortably in it and asking me, compassionately, “How are you feeling?” I, still in amazement at his presence, failed to answer. He began again, with a laugh, “That’s my sister Melanie. She’s a nurse, and I’ve brought her here to heal you.” Almost forgetting the figure that huddled close to me, quite awkwardly, I looked down and saw her soft features looking back at me. “I suppose there’s nothing to worry about then Melanie?” he said, to which she replied, “No… Except, well… His heart is beating rapidly this very instant.” “Shush,” answered James with a smile.

               Feeling it necessary to say something, and it being my preferred time of the day, I managed to proceed as well as I could have hoped. I confessed, “I struggle… With existence…” although in his presence the words lost their meaning; coming to the conclusion that I didn’t believe them, I waited for a response, none the less. Melanie looked sympathetically into my eyes and her hand rubbed tenderly on top of my own.

               “I’ve always found,” James started, “that existing comes naturally to me. That ever since I was a baby I couldn’t help but exist.” And seeing me laugh in response, induced him to join me jovially, until silence reclaimed the room and he added, delicately, “I understand.”

               With those words my previous intimation stirred and I felt it regain life; that sensation of struggle that permeates my being. But as those dark clouds approached, the light of James dispelled them. The few droplets that escaped overhead cooled me where they normally would have destroyed me. I looked at James, who appeared pleased with the scene in front of him.

               “Oh, do stay there!” he implored, removing some drawing utensils and a sketchbook from a bag he had with him. I obeyed, and Melanie, closing her eyes, seemed to fall asleep on my chest.

               Her warmth as well as the warmth that emanated from James made me feel better. Again, I felt my nervousness recede like a wave; the malleable wet sand then exposed. James surveying me with the infatuated eyes of an artist at work; I took leave to ask a question that in less intimate circumstances I might not dare.

               “Have you been in love James?”

               I saw a subtle wince appear on his features before softening, and he answered solemnly, “I have.”

               “What did it feel like?”

               James sketched eagerly on his notepad, his pencil slowing down occasionally to refine one part or another. He answered after a few minutes of quiet contemplation,

               “The feeling is… Like always having a home, I suppose. One who has never experienced what it feels like to be without one may not understand, but it is cold and lonely. To know that there is someone always waiting for you. That your image dances across their mind every so often.”

               His soft voice set me asleep.

               I awoke and Melanie was gone, James was standing over me, giving me a kiss on the forehead.

               “Did I fall asleep?” I asked.

               “Yes.” Said James, “and now go back to sleep.”

               I noticed the sketchbook in his hand and inquired whether I could see the picture before he left.

               “No… It’s not very good I’m afraid.”

               With my tired eyes I asked him, “Could I be made ugly in your eyes?”

               He sat on my bed and put his hand over mine. He responded, with gravity, “Dear friend, have such faith in my artistic talent that I can make the most beautiful soul appear ugly.” And with that he got up and walked out. He has been absent ever since…

               Months later, I received a letter from Melanie who informed me that James was getting married and his soon to be wife had put her in charge of invitations. That when she came to pick James up from my little town where he was visiting their Aunt, she saw the friendship that had blossomed. Oh, Werther! How close I was to sharing your fate. If not for the sketch… That piece of artwork that he refused to part with. What am I to make of it? I am afraid to delve too carelessly Werther, for its existence is my only means of surivival…