The Sphere in the Middle of Time

 I couldn't tell any difference in their ages; they all seemed to be the same age to me. They were simply young, around twenty. Yet whenever I tried to guess, I was wrong.

“Why, can we tell you apart?” said one of them. “How old are you? Fifty?”

I explained to him that among ourselves we differed by only five or six years each. And I wondered how they couldn’t see it. It was crystal clear to those of us of that age.

“Maybe, but not to us,” the kid replied. “To us, you’re just one step away from them,” he said, pointing a little further down to a few elderly people.

“But they're old!” I protested.

“Hey!” an old man scolded me. “Don’t lump us all together. I’m seventy-five, he’s sixty-eight, and the third one is eighty.”

Good God, I thought to myself, I understood nothing. They had all seemed old to me. And on the other side, all young. I could only make out details inside my own range, as if there were a sphere around us defining clarity. Beyond that, things faded out.

“But that’s how all you young people are,” the old man told me.

I understood. I wasn't the clueless one after all, I thought with a certain satisfaction. We simply recognized details within our own sphere.

Spheres all running together along the line of time.

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The Escapee

The prison was made of concentric circles. At the center it was suffocating because we were crammed on top of one another, that was where we all began. In the next circle it was better, as there was more room. With every circle you escaped, you found yourself in prison once again, but you could breathe a little easier.

I had escaped several circles, yet I was never sure: were we few, those of us who climbed the walls, or were we many, made to look sparse by the distance between us? Nor had I concluded if these circles would ever end. Each time, there were fewer and fewer escapees left to ask.

Yet I kept escaping, and perhaps deep down this was my true endeavor: not to become free, but to find a prison where I could breathe.

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The Steps of the Camel

A sweet Eastern wind blew across the desert. You could hear it soft yet steadfast, carrying her story from edge to edge, drifting slowly all the way from the East to where the sun goes down.

In its wake, it had lifted a veil of the finest and lightest sand, hovering just above the ground. It flowed gently and in harmony with the wind, like spider-thin tulle drawn by a tender hand, gliding away as it touched the desert, caressing the dunes and tracing her form.

And the camels of the caravan seemed to tread on nothing but this carpet woven of sand and ether, moving weightlessly, leaving no trace behind. Their hooves dissolved into it, just as our thoughts had vanished, swept away by the wind.

You could see τhose thoughts running free towards the horizon, with neither the desire nor the wish to return, scattering their burden like ash. And you watched them from afar, your gaze spellbound and unburdened, as they raced toward the most distant ridges.

And so you journeyed through the desert freed of their weight, towards the setting sun that left the shadows behind. Without them, you were more willing than the wind, ethereal as the veil of sand, transparent, and somehow like the steps of the camel, weightless, leaving no footprint upon her.

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Blue eyes, almost grey

I knew she was watching my every move, so I was putting my best foot forward. She wasn’t here; she was looking down at me from above like an examiner -like a higher being, I’d say- and the only thing I was certain of was that her eyes were blue, almost grey when you first looked into them. I felt no awkwardness under her gaze. On the contrary, her attention gave me immense strength.

I turned my focus to the rest, to those in front of me. Two scum, each worse than the other. Suited and well-groomed, the exact kind I hated most. They stood there, blocking the door behind their massive backs. They weren't silent or cow-eyed, like those who burn their brains to build their brawn. They were arrogant punks with contemptuous stares and condescending smirks. They talked sharp, and if you talked back, they’d make a fool of you.

“Good evening,” I said, unsmiling.

My voice came out with confidence. Just knowing that she was watching me, that she cared about me, made me a different man.

One of the beasts glared at me wildly. He lacked his usual mocking air. He sensed instantly that I didn't feel weak. The other beast looked at me similarly, though in his eyes I caught a flicker of unease. He was used to people trembling before them.

“I’m here to see Mr. Rentoulis,” I told them. Plainly. Steadily. The strength those blue -almost grey- eyes gave me acted like a catalyst transforming me. From my posture to my steady voice. I wasn't afraid of the two thugs in front of me, nor their boss behind the door. I knew they could break me to pieces, yet I felt no fear. Or rather, I felt it, but I could master it.

My stance was so unprecedented that the thugs were trying to figure out if I was on drugs. But neither my eyes showed such signs -I looked them straight in the eye with a slightly furrowed brow- nor did my voice tremble. I was solid. Authentic. And when you are authentic, you command at least respect.

“What do you want with him?” one asked me. He was staring directly into my corneas and from there into my soul. The second one did the same. They were trying to read me.

“I have business with him.”

“And what would that be?”

“Do I have to discuss it with you?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Does he want me to?”

There was no irony in my voice. Logical. You don’t mock guys like that. Nor was there cowardice. Illogical.

“If so, I have no problem discussing it with you.”

The two thugs were trying to figure out what kind of story I was. They hadn't even asked my name. Until a moment ago, they didn't care who I was, only what I wanted. But now they wondered: a guy with no fear, confident, without dropping his shoulders or his gaze. And there are no words more persuasive than those spoken by body language. Intuitively, they got the message that this guy needed careful handling. Maybe I was someone important after all.

“Who are you?” one asked me.

I told them straight out.

My name meant nothing to them. I wasn't surprised; I was just a guy in the crowd. An ordinary one. What transformed me was her interest. I knew that right now she was with me, that she cared about me, that she feared for me, and that was enough to push me to my finest limit. I was becoming who I was capable of being.

“You’d better come back another time,” the thug said.

“What time would be suitable?” I said.

“I don’t think there are any suitable times.”

“Alright,” I replied. “Tell Mr. Rentoulis that I dropped by at…” I looked at my watch, “…14:47, a time deemed unsuitable.”

“And you’ll drop by again…” the second thug chimed in, cutting the 'when?' off his sentence. He stood staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“I won't be back,” I answered.

That shook him up a bit. The other one too. They wondered if they had made a mistake.

I had two choices before me. The first was to insist. The second was to bluff. To pretend they’d both get into deep trouble if their boss didn't see me, and pretend to walk away. Looking at them, such a move had a good chance of working.

I didn't need to do either. My posture was so authentic that they hesitated. If they had spotted the slightest weakness, I had no doubt they would have crushed me. But there is a psychological balance determined by the few things you see and the many you don't. All the signals my body sent made them intuit that I was either very crazy or very important. And every single signal was sincere.

They decided not to risk it.

“Alright,” one said, opening the door. “I suppose you know where to find him.”

I nodded and waited for them to step aside.

I crossed the threshold into a large hall suffocating with music and smoke. It smelled of joints and a cocktail of women's perfume. Men and women were everywhere, some standing, others on couches taking drags or sipping drinks, others at small tables playing cards or arm-wrestling. All the bad boys were here.

The opening of the door made a few turn toward me. I was a stranger to them, but at first glance, they immediately got the same message as the thugs: something's up with this guy, he isn't afraid. Their eyes narrowed with curiosity, something that spread through the hall instantly. Pairs of eyes began to lift and lock onto me, until the entire room ended up staring. Only the music hinted at movement; everything else stopped.

I walked further inside, and those standing opened a corridor for me to pass. They stepped aside without taking their eyes off me. They held their drinks and took a step or two back to give me space. It wasn't just that I wasn't afraid or that my stride was firm and strong. It was that I wasn't even dazzled by the beauty of the incredible females in there. Any woman who stared intently at me was the first to lower her eyes if I returned her gaze.

Nobody in there saw my driving force. But those blue -almost grey- eyes kept watching me from above, filled with anxiety. She cared about me, and because she cared, she was afraid. And I cared about her. And because I cared, I felt no fear.

The corridor formed by the mobsters led to an empty chair in the center of the opposite wall. It could have been a throne, but it was just the boss's chair. I walked up to it, and a waitress pointed with an awkward glance to a door behind it. His office.

I went to open it, but then I felt what always shattered my resolve. The creasing of the page at the top corner. The dog-ear in the book she used to pick up where she left off next time she engaged with me. It creased my soul, but she didn't know it. She was doing it again now. I had felt so good up to that moment that the creasing of the page felt like her fingernails clawing at my heart.

I looked up and saw the cover closing. I managed to catch one last glimpse of her eyes before the pages fell upon me, hiding her from my view.

I instinctively raised my hand to stop it.

“Don’t,” I told her.

The pages kept coming down on me.

“Your interest makes me who I am,” I told her.

The pages kept coming down on me.

“I only truly live when you care about me,” I confessed, hand raised high, as if I could stop the sky from falling.

Nothing. The pages fell upon me mercilessly. The book closed. I was left in the dark until the next time she would care about me.

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