The Infinite Nothing

III : the world, a grave

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Tristan didn't like to think about himself, but if anyone were to place him in a chair and forbid him to get up before he didn't do it, he would call himself a dead soul trapped in a mortal coil with no reason to exist and no destiny to fulfil.

People liked to talk about purpose. They were destined to do certain great things, and some actually managed to flourish in their doing, even if it was something as insignificant as selling flowers in that rotting and moulding shop around the corner. Tristan wouldn't believe it if he hadn't experienced it first-hand.

Rosa Gonzales was likely the only woman he would ever love. Old enough to be his grandma and possessing the knowledge of one, she managed to bring joy to a life that was so dominated by death and addiction and pitiful thoughts.

Tristan had adored her and her moulding shop and the flowers she made him bring his friends, and then Rosa had died, and she took all the joy he had thought to know with her.

Tristan had helped organize her funeral since she had no family to do it for her. He had made sure she got buried in a comfortable pinewood coffin and that they exclusively played Elvis' songs since it was the only music she could accept. Tristan had put on his finest suit and he had cried as she got lowered into the earth, for there was no one else to shed a tear in her favour.

Once the ceremony was over Tristan went home, and he promised himself never to go near her flower shop again. Rosa was dead, and so were all his memories of her.

Tristan had no purpose in life, no reason to exist, no destiny to fulfil. And yet he went to bed and woke up, he put on nice clothes and went to work, he comforted strangers and organized funerals and he met boys who smiled at coffins.

Ivan seemed to find comfort in pretending to be an asshole. Tristan was certain that no man who smiled with satisfaction upon finding a set of stairs could be an asshole. Whether he was trying to prove something to himself or simply escape a life as meaningless as Tristan's was unclear; either way, when Tristan came to the rooftop the next evening, Ivan was there.

"Proudhon was a French sociologist, also known as the father of anarchy," Ivan said as Tristan said down in the same chair as yesterday. "You could have just told me."

"You learn more if you do the research yourself," Tristan replied.

"Again, stop acting as if we're in school. It's summer."

Tristan glanced up to the sky. "I haven't been there in years."

"You dropped out?"

Tristan almost laughed at the way Ivan asked such a simple question; almost frightful. "Yes."

"Why? Your parents just let you?"

"They weren't there to interfere."

"Oh." Ivan fell silent and so did Tristan. Twilight was painting the roof in a soft hue of yellow and orange, and the cars beneath them seemed miles away. It was funny how easily one's outlook on life could change by simply climbing a building.

"My parents would never let me drop out. Mom would say, 'oh my, but your sister is so academically gifted!' and dad would say, 'told you that you had an affair eighteen years ago', that's no son of mine."

Tristan smiled. "Did she?"

"I don't know. Maybe, but even before me. I don't think Dorothy is really related to us. Where would she have all her brains from? It doesn't add up."

"Ah."

Ivan drew his legs to his chest and hugged them, his gaze drifting over the city he called his home. "Why did you drop out?"