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| [Image from: kennethwongsf.blogspot.com] |
CHATLINES
“Mind if I sit here?”
“No, go ahead.”
She drew back a fraction from the table as he settled opposite.
“I saw you last night.”
“You did?”
“The cocktail party.”
“Right.”
“You’re not wearing your label.”
“No.”
“And I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Kate.”
“Ah yes. Kate. Who are you with Kate?”
“Nobody.”
“No, what firm are you with?”
“Baldock and Oates.”
“James Thompson, Mackenzie Reed.”
“So I see.”
“Call me Jamie.”
There was a long silence. They busied themselves with their breakfasts.
“Enjoying that?”
“Just yoghurt."
“Very healthy. Been for a run?”
“No.”
“How come the running gear, then?”
“I like it.”
“Yes, very fetching. Do you run much?”
“Not really.”
“You hide well.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“I watched you last night. Very detached.”
”If you say so."
“Just an observation. I don’t mean it unkindly, critically. You seem very detached. Cool. Self possessed.”
Kate shrugged indifference.
“You project separateness. Powerfully. Deliberately. You know you do. It’s a statement, an artefact, a placard, a packaging you’ve designed for yourself. You hang out all the signs. Private – Keep Out, Do Not Disturb, No Loitering, No Throughway, No Entry – One Way Street, Keep Off the Grass, Trespassers Will be Prosecuted, Danger – Hard Hat Area…”
“If I’m that transparent, I can hardly be hiding.”
Kate finished her breakfast and left.
* * * *
“Are you working on something, Kate?”
"Always working on something.”
“For a presentation?”
“Tomorrow.”
“What on?”
"Copyright in China."
“Mine was this morning. New Zealand China Free Trade Agreement. Now that’s out of the way I’m thinking of writing a short story. About you.”
“Me! You don’t know a thing about me."
“What’s that to do with the price of fish? It’s a story. Besides, I do know something about you. I told you I’d been reading the signs. Seen you in the tealeaves.”
“Looks like coffee to me. Froth from your flat white.”
“The stillness. The animation. Unusual combination. Kind of compelling. Intriguing. Shall I tell you about yourself?”
“Sure. Why not. I like a good story.”
“Called you Zhenya. Sounds more exotic. Dark and mysterious. Not so nice as Kate. You, Zhenya, live alone. Apart from your Abyssinian cat. Aloof and haughty. The cat I mean. Townhouse in Parnell, occasional weekends with friends at
“Clichéd, isn’t it? Perhaps you should try horoscopes.”
“You will meet a tall dark stranger and be mesmerised by his wit, his conversation and the froth from his coffee."
“My god, you are a cliché.”
“You weren’t supposed to say that.”
“Well, I’m so sorry. You should have shown me my lines.”
“We already had this conversation.”
“Was it good?”
“It was different.”
“Better than this I hope.”
“No, just different.”
“Look, James Thompson from Mackenzie Reed. I don’t know why you’ve developed this ridiculous interest in me. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. But if you want to chat me up, chat me up. Stop playing silly bloody games. Forget the games. I’m not that stupid.”
“Aw, now you’ve spoilt it.”
“Tough.”
“Ah well, not to worry. It doesn’t matter. Why don’t we have another coffee and talk about nothing in particular.”
“I think we already did.”
* * * *
“How’s the panini?”
Kate took another bite and looked at James thoughtfully as she chewed.
“I’m not in the market. I don’t want to trade with you."
“The market for what?”
“Personal intimacies.”
“You mean a personal relationship?”
“No. I mean the exchange of intimacies.”
“Isn’t that the basis of all personal relationships?”
“Heaven forbid!”
“I’m not with you?”
“James, listen. If I want to tell you something about myself, something intimate and personal, something close to the bone of my life, behind the façade of your cat and coffee delusions, I’ll tell you about it. And if I don’t want to, I won’t. But I’m not trading with you. It’s not something you trade. It’s not a question of you show me your hurts, fears, joys, fantasies, and I’ll show you mine. I’ll show you what I choose, if I choose. Unconditionally. But I have no need to tell you such things. Nor does my telling or not telling define something between us. Not even that I trust you with the information.”
“So what does define what’s between us?”
“It doesn’t have to be anything. Could be a space, a void. Or the knowledge that we’re free to tell or not tell, no strings being pulled, no games being played. That there are no expectations, no demands for reciprocity. That if I choose to keep certain things to myself that’s my business.”
“But what kind of relationship is it if you can't be open about everything?”
“Probably a perfectly good one, a normal one. One where there’s respect for privacy.”
“That’s why you’re such a private person?”
“But I’m not. I’m not a particularly private person. I’m just not obsessed by mutual revelations of intimate feelings.”
“And I am?”
“That’s not for me to say. You tell me.”
“You think I’m self-absorbed, narcissistic.”
“We’re all self-absorbed up to a point. The centre of our little universes. That’s consciousness. Trouble with Narcissus was he could only see himself in his reflection. Without that he had no idea who he was. Even if he existed. Without seeing himself in the eyes of others he was totally insecure. So never mind what I think. It shouldn’t matter what I think. What do you think?”
“I like to know about people.”
“Know. What can you know? What can anyone ever know? About other people. It’s hard enough unravelling oneself.”
“I like to know what’s happened to people, what their experiences are, their feelings are.”
“Why? So you can feel free to tell them about your own? Why not just tell people about yourself, your life, your experiences, your feelings. Why wait for them to tell you?”
“Like you do you mean! Anyway, wouldn’t that be self-absorption? Wouldn’t that be narcissistic?”
"Not necessarily. Though it could be boring.”
“Yes, well, anyway, how was the panini?”
* * * *
“If you don’t want to get burnt, Jamie, don’t put your hand in the fire.”
“Just a little singed then. Chargrilled. Like your snapper.”
“Flames don’t discriminate.”
“I can always take my hand out again.”
“I doubt it.”
“You mean I have to fall right in, more like a volcano than a fire?”
“No, you don’t have to be totally consumed.”
“Just burnt. What degree burns do you offer?”
“All kinds. First degree. Second degree. Third degree. Take your pick.”
“Trouble is I burn easy and you look like a third degree burner.”
“You think I don’t burn too. I’m not inflammable.”
“But more flameproof I think. All that protective gear.”
“Well, you don’t have to jump in naked.”
“Is there any other way?”
“It depends what you want.”
“I thought we might just be friends, just people who could talk to each other honestly. No pretence. No artifice. No games.”
“No games?”
“Well, almost no games. The game of no game.”
“How can one know?”
”Yes, how can one know.”
“Motives.”
“Yes, motives. I don’t know all the motives. But I tell you friendship is my motive. Well, I think it is. You distrust that, don’t you? You think I’m after your body. You think stuff about friendship is just fancy footwork.”
“Maybe."
“And you don’t know which frightens you most. That I do want your body or that I don’t want your body. So you assume that I do. Gives you a basis for mistrust.”
“Perhaps I should be mistrustful.”
“You should, Kate, you should. I agree.”
“But not about you?”
“Yes, yes, about me too. How can I know what my motives are? But if I believe they’re friendship, if I say they’re friendship, then I may at least be able to act friendship.”
“No sex?”
“Did I say that?”
“Just friendship?”
“Friends can have sex too. It’s just that friendship is the basis of the relationship, not sex.”
“Once we have sex how can we still be friends?”
“With great difficulty.”
“Suppose we like it?”
“I should hope we would.”
”But knowing that destroys everything else.”
“Knowing what?”
“Love, intimacy, joy. All that.”
“Why should it destroy friendship?”
“You can’t go back. Having lived that makes it hard not to live that."
“But how can that last? How can you expect it to last?”
“I don’t know, but I do expect it.”
“It’s unrealistic.”
“I know, but it’s what I want.”
“Fantasy. Illusion.”
“No, it’s real, it’s real."
“Folly, just folly. Folly and idleness.”
“A divine madness.”
“And then what?”
"God knows.”
“I don’t think he does, and I’m sure you don’t. But we’ll just be friends then. If that’s what you want.”
“Kiss me you stupid man."
* * * *
“That wasn’t in the script.”
“What script?”
“My script.”
“So? You think you’re the only one with a script. God, Jamie, you’re so transparent.”
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| [Image from: theintimacydojo.com] |
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