A Sonata of Solitude

Chapter Two: An Aria of Apathy

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay

Chapter Two:
An Aria of Apathy

The rain splattered over the concrete, momentary instances of destruction as they concluded their dizzying descent from on high with violent deceleration. It was relentlessly pouring, puddles forming on the streets and streams dripping down from angular roofs. Even the throng of umbrellas transported by huddling people on their way to work served only to remove the brunt of the onslaught - a barest attempt at protection, at shelter.

One umbrella in the mass. One nameless face in the crowd.

That's all I was.

The morass overhead shadowed everything, light filtered through the angry clouds draining everything of its colour. Muted, devoid of life - even the bright lights of signs and billboards were suppressed, a vista of black, white, and grey. Approaching the subway station, it was all-encompassing, every detail affected by the onslaught of the heavens.

It had been a week.

A week since I'd broken down. The next day had brought with it an inescapable, pounding headache, a hangover, and I'd called in sick to work - my first time since I'd begun slightly over four years prior. Luckily, they hadn't asked too many questions. I'd felt guilty, but part of me had also felt relieved - it was an extra day away.

Another day without having to face you.

Swaddled in blankets, window curtains drawn, alone. I'd completely and utterly succumbed. Devoured - sinking beneath the surface, I was consumed entirely by the past, my mistakes, and the recollections buried deep beneath the silt at the base of the lily-strewn pond of my memories.

Yet... it was only one day.

One day had been all I'd been willing to afford myself. A moment of repose, and then I was back at work. Back into the daily mundanity and the repetitiveness of my dream. Repetition. Repetition. Days of overcast skies and dreary rain - even the weather had elected to abhor variation.

Since that day, I had barely seen you - whether you realized how you'd affected me, I didn't know. Perhaps, with my absence the next day, you'd pieced it together.

Perhaps you simply didn't care.

Rain. Grey rain.

As I had finished the commute from the subway to the front door of the school, I had taken a moment to close my umbrella under the overhang. Folded, then stowed. Wiping my shoes, I changed my footwear, and then slowly made my way to the staff office. I was early, and it was only sparsely populated - most of my colleagues had yet to arrive.

The only sound was the gentle drumming against the windows.

Stowing my bag under my desk and hanging my umbrella on a rack in the corner, I wandered over to a coffee machine in the corner after greeting the small collection of people in the room. Putting in my hundred-yen, I pushed a button, and watched as the dark black substance streamed into a foam cup. A moment later, a dollop of milk, and a syrup; and my drink was done. Grabbing a stirstick and a lid from a tray next to the machine, I returned to my desk.

I sipped my coffee. It was sickly sweet - more a milk coffee than any mature taste. Yet, it was hard to care. I'd never truly grown fond of bitter drinks, despite how my other tastes had matured over the years. It was nothing more than a vehicle for transporting caffeine to my body.