Decisions had been made so there was no point in pushing the topic, as doing so would only further entrench the woman in her position. At the doorway to which she was kind enough to usher him, he turned back to face her, offering, "I'll call you later, okay?"
Jason's eyes moved from one object to another in the room, having a recollection about almost every piece, even the mundane. The man was sentimental, allowing each one to be imbued with an emotion he felt at a particular moment.
"Just wait until I call you, all right?" Her hand grasped the edge of the door, wanting to close it and push this conversation into her past.
"All right, of course, if that's what you want." Once more his eyes caught sight of his shoes, a view he had become accustomed to over the course of the morning.
She nodded, trying to lead him in the direction of her thought, to get him to accept her suggestion like a hypnotist. "I think it's best, don't you?"
"Yeah, yeah," he agreed, in direct contradiction to what he really felt and thought.
"Okay then." Sheila started to push the door closed but her boyfriend, who was going to make that transition to ex-boyfriend, once the door rested back in its home, lingered where the door wanted to be, or at least where its captain wished to steer it. "What?" she asked, annoyed at the man's persistence.
Jason pointed at the jacket that Sheila donned--his jacket. "Can...can I have my jacket?"
She pulled the article of clothing tight around her as if it were an important item that comforted her. "What?" It was a reaction he didn't expect, one that stoked hope in him. His face was alight with that--she wanted to keep it, something to remember him by.
***************************************
If he had another jacket in the apartment, he would have surrendered it. He explained, "It's cold outside and that's the only jacket I have here." The fact that Sheila acted in such a manner gave him a glimmer of hope, so he reached out. "Unless, you know, it means a lot to you."
All of a sudden her arms were no longer pulling the jacket close to her body. "No, no. Not at all." She stripped the piece of sewn fabric from her back and tossed it at the man with more force and intent than one would a cherished object. "Take it."
I made her angry by asking for it, Jason thought. Holding it at arms length toward the woman, he offered, "Seriously, if you want to keep it, it's fine."
She shook her head. "I'm okay."
Looking at the jacket in stunned wonder, Jason somehow managed to say, "Thank you." There was apparently a misunderstanding on Jason's part about Sheila's initial reaction when she had pulled it close.
He grabbed a hold of the door knob and slowly pulled it shut as Sheila's heavy hand pushed it closed, even as his hand attempted to cause the door to yield to his desires, to ease the momentum of their demise. In the end, regardless of the pace of the door, the result was going to be the same--two people heading in their opposite directions but still on the same trapeze line that was created from the threads of Fate.
Bewildered by every act, every word, every emotion that took place on the other side of the door, he pulled the jacket over his shoulders. Almost as instantly the fragrance of her favorite perfume wafted upwards to his nose, a ghost of the past, the near past. It overflowed with the fragrance, a tormenter that would hound his every step until several washed would exorcise the woman completely from his life--washes he would avoid giving it for quite some time. Despite Sheila's assurances, Jason was well-aware that what just happened was in fact a break-up. This was the third fight like this one, over nothing of consequence.
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Most people would have cursed Fate for the unfortunate turn of events, but Jason had lived on the excess of Fortune over the course of the preceding two years, he couldn't in good conscience turn on it. The only path to follow at this point is to toss one's self to its winds and whims again, allowing it to carry one where it may.
Having no plans for the day outside of spending a few hours with Sheila until he had to make his way to work that afternoon, Jason had little problem deviating from his itinerary. Until three o'clock, when he would have to be at work, it was up to the Moirae to carve the stone of his life into some recognizable feature of a statue to which he could cling.
His feet carried him with no particular destination in mind, no shepherd to father the right and left foot to anywhere. Wherever his body was pointed, they would go, although their carrier was no more aware of where that would be than he was of the cause of Sheila's assault on their relationship.
As he arrived at the park, an uneasiness washed over him as he was surrounded by the unbridled passions of couples. Much like the returning birds, couples had a distasteful desire to announce spring with a near endless display of affection. The man did not hate these people for that which they had but for that which he lacked. While most were blissfully ignorant of the difference, Jason was altogether familiar with the attributes which separated the two from being synonymous.
There was a certain mockery that life had devised on this particular canvas of nature. Every step that projected him forward was met anew with another couple, another display, another sword thrust deep at his heart. Below the surface of each kiss was an undercurrent which threatened to devour him in an uncertainty, one that could easily pull him into an abyss of depression.
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Is there anything worse on God's green earth than seeing another couple enjoying each other's embrace right after you've broken up? There are those who would take a seat on a park bench and being enumerating a mental list of every flaw that existed between the pair and why it wouldn't work. With the majority of couples, that's all it a took, a cursory look. Their friends, their family, even strangers in the supermarket were keenly aware of the pitfalls that would entrap them, but polite company and civilization's manners prevented such an open display.
Jason was not given to such bitter recriminations, even when he was at his lowest point. Due to this rare characteristic, seldom found in modern man, but deeply rooted within the core of this person, Jason passed them with a smile that still maintained the fires of warmth that the act normally would carry.
Children ran to and from, tossing balls to one another and then chasing after them when they were overthrown and the other proved incapable of catching them. Isn't that always the case? We always want the ball but someone, either intentionally or accidentally, keeps us from it by overthrowing or we are incapable of holding onto it.
Sheila had always been more practical than the man who wandered the pathways of Fate. Passion was always given homage and tribute to by the hands of Jason. If something struck his fancy, he would do so. Shaking his head, the man told himself, "We were never going to work out."
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Somewhere during the course of his silent reverie, Jason had veered off the well-worn path and onto the grass, meeting the edge of the pond, walking around its edges with the intent of making its full circumference, that is until an unmoving sentinel was standing in his way.
This sentinel was made of copper in the shape of Henri Abelard, a local folk hero of Calvin's Rocks, his hand thrust forward, palm up in search of an offering.
"How goes it, brother?" Jason pulled himself up by the leg of the unmoved statue in order to hoist himself onto the slab which supported it. With an arm wrapped around the waist of the copper man, Jason suggested, "Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine."
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