~~~
How long till we call it love?
~~~
As partial to Moments as we are, we often forget that these treacherous beings are hardly all that constitute a memorable life. What linger on the periphery of our memories are conversations - fleeting remnants of an erstwhile desire expressed in sound - and it's easy to forget that they're often what render a moment its true meaning. Conversations can make or break relationships; strengthen, rejuvenate or completely destroy.
Some conversations, however, are mere exchange of words, and all meaning rendered onto them is courtesy of eager hearts beating relentlessly.
...
She watched his fingers, lean and tapered, with callouses on the sides, and for the third time in an hour, suppressed the urge to touch them
Her insides ached at their proximity.
Trying to distract herself, she looked up at him, and found his eyes closed, a half smile on his face. His hair was tousled beautifully from the countless times he'd run his hand through them, and there was a serenity on his features that was infectious.
If she were to follow her heart, Amelia would've rested her head in his lap and drifted into sleep. But Amelia was a logical, practical, sensible girl.
"I'm awake."
She started at this sudden declaration, "Umm -what?"
"I'm awake.", he repeated, opening his eyes and peering at her through honey-blond lashes, his lips pulled up at a corner, "you know, just in case you were wondering."
"It would be awfully rude", she quipped, "but not all that unexpected."
"What do you mean, Amy across the Atlantic?"
"Well, you're already almost dozing off", she replied as coolly as she could, while her heart hammered at the sight of the sunlight falling over half his face, illuminating his chiselled features "I wouldn't put it past you to simply fall asleep."
"I'm not dozing, Amelia," he replied softly, turning his face to look at her, and suddenly she was aware of the mere inches between their faces, the green flecks in his eyes darker in the muted light of the studio.
For the life of her Amelia couldn't fathom in that moment how she'd landed in that situation. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a very extraordinary moment.
Or perhaps it was.
Amelia didn't have majestic expectations. She didn't expect Sarah to have asked over a friend to crash in the studio storage room and give painting lessons by her side. She didn't expect this friend to be the charming, benevolent man who was currently looking into her eyes. And she certainly didn't expect this man to have found the poem she'd written (and lost) months ago.
But here she was, sitting on the floor beside him, having spent the last hour talking about everything, until they settled into companionable silence, his head resting against the window frame, looking out at the yard, an enviable peacefulness on his face, while she sat beside and tried to connect the dots of the path that her lead to this Moment.
...
Emily resisted the urge to check her phone as it vibrated for the third time in five minutes.
Across the table, Amelia looked up from a sheaf of papers and arched her eyebrow at her.
Emily thanked the stars her phone's ringer wasn't on as usual - Amelia would've killed her.
Eyeing the occupants of the room, Emily let her hand enter her bag as inconspicuously as possible, fishing her phone out, her movements deliberate and cat-like, and balanced it precariously over the bag's white leather, mere inches below the glass top of the conference table.
She looked up again; nobody noticed her antics, poring over the large stacks of paper instead.
It was the second meeting between Thompson & Lowell and the UAI, and once again she was filling in Campbell's stead, the only difference being her elevated importance - at least in the first fifteen minutes. She'd brought over the catalogues Amelia had requested before the art exhibition, volunteering to drop them over as a respite from having to manually sort through hundreds of catalogue entries about Indo-European art in her dingy office, and also because nobody from her department wanted to face Mark Lowell at the utter delay.
"He's ruthless", Rosie Johnson had whispered conspiratorially when Emily had decided to shoulder the responsibility - it was their fault to have released the documents after a delay of five weeks, after all - and had shaken her plump hands off the matter with the solitary comment, watching the blonde stagger under the weight of the antiquated documents, barely even helping with wrapping them up for the transit.
Emily wasn't quite sure why she'd chosen to play the courier, but her co-workers gave her enough reason to justify her cause anyway.
She messaged George on the way - Love, I'll be home late tonight. Meeting at Ames's office. - and was only mildly concerned about his delayed response when her phone had started vibrating loudly in the middle of a discussion about inverted beams and Greek colonnades and though she wouldn't ever admit it - she welcomed the respite.
But then her phone rang two more times, and Amelia's frown became more and more pronounced with each instance, and Emily was forced to stash her handbag away from the brunette's sight to better evade blame later.
The corporate world was a stuffy place, Emily recapitulated.
Glancing at the other occupants of the room, she suddenly caught Armin Bluhm's eyes, and was quite taken aback by how keenly the German man was looking at her, his light blue eyes twinkling. She grimaced at him, trying to divert attention from her nearly-visible phone, when he shot a smile her way and glanced at her lap.
Shit.
His eyes still twinkling with mirth, he turned towards Amelia, who was busy scribbling something on the margins of her sheaf of papers, and called her to attention
"Amelia, let's take a five minute break, yeah?"
"Huh?"
"I have some emails to check - that's alright, yeah?"
"Yes, of course", replied Amelia, and Emily noticed that she looked a little flustered. Standing up rapidly, she gathered her things, and stood motionless for a few seconds before stepping out of the room.
"There, you can check your phone now", put in Armin sweetly, a cheeky smile on his face, as Emily watched Amelia exit the room. Distracted, Emily glanced back to take in the shoulder length sandy-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners.
Her phone beeped again. George had never been a patient man.
...
She watched him walk over to the window sill and settle down on the floor, his movements surprisingly agile for a man of his stature, the scotch sloshing in the coffee cup held loosely in one hand. He looked up at her expectantly, and she leant down to place her own mug (carrying coffee) on the floor before sitting down beside him, her back against the wall, as Adam looked out of the window.
It'd be months before the two of them would find such tranquillity again, in a quiet October afternoon when Amelia would fondly kiss him on the cheek and snuggle against his shoulder. At the moment, however, she kept her distance and watched him out of the corner of her eyes, as he gazed out of the window at the loft's backyard.
For now, however, this was enough.
For the first time in the afternoon, perhaps, she didn't feel his eyes over her face. Sipping his scotch in the middle of the afternoon like it was the most normal thing in the world, he spoke calmly, and for hours later, Amelia would remember the inflections of his voice, the way his breath expelled itself from those thin lips and formed words, and how, without meaning to, she lost herself in them a little.
"Have you ever been in love, Amelia?"
She replied breathlessly, "Yes."
He turned his head to look at her.
"Was it worth dying for?" He said almost dramatically, and she couldn't tell if he was joking.
"I don't know", she managed demurely
He smiled at her, and took another sip, never once breaking eye contact. Then he spoke, "It's such a huge expectation, don't you think? To die for love? Where do people even come up with these things?"
"Probably from sappy Hollywood movies," she replied, a little relieved that he didn't believe in his own question, though she couldn't tell why, "or probably because they did find someone worth dying for."
He chuckled at her response, "You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Maybe I do?"
"Did you find someone worth dying for?"
"No", the quickness of her reply left her disappointed, and pain flared in her chest at the sheer failure that had become the last two years of her life.
"Then why'd you believe it?"
She realized she didn't have an answer for him without baring her soul to him. And so she held her tongue
"Let me guess," he pressed on, "your parents are super into each other?"
She laughed at the suggestion. "That would explain everything, wouldn't it?"
"I suppose it would." After a pause, he spoke again, "Why, then?"
"It'd be terribly sad world to live in if there was no hope for a love worth dying for, wouldn't it?"
"That, Amelia, is a terrible explanation."
Despite his admonishment, she found herself chuckling along with him.
"Why not? It's as lovely a thought as any!"
"D'you really believe in that? That one day you'll find someone who you'll fall madly in love with and be ready to die for him?"
"It'd be a life ill-spent if there's not even a fraction spent in such delusion."
He smirked at her, "So it's a delusion now?"
"What I'm trying to say is", she attempted to bring her thoughts to order, as the sight of his blue-green eyes became a little too much to bear, "that there's a grand possibility that love is nothing but an illusion, and that the scientists are right and it's just a bunch of chemicals messing with our heads. And to be honest, that's as good an explanation as any. But maybe, just maybe," she smiled at his rapt face, "the delusion is what we need to keep on trying and not give up. It's what the future of our species needs - a cause worth dying for - to make sure we live on."
He stayed silent for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.
"Oh come on," she said in an injured voice, "it wasn't that silly."
"You're brilliant, Barnett, did anyone tell you that?"
"Well I try", she said, biting her lip at his approval, a warm glow in her chest.
"You wanna know what I believe?"
"Tell me?" She asked demurely
"I believe that one day love will find me if it has to, and until then I'd better be married to my job", he said, resting his head back on the wall, closing his eyes, "And then, I'll find out for myself if all the love stories tell the truth. Until then, I prefer never to think about it."
"We're terribly different aren't we?" She said finally, gazing at his serene face, the sunlight bouncing off his eyelids.
"But we both believe in love," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "and that's all that matters."
Amelia knew she'd be replaying this conversation in her head for weeks.
...
Will be home late tonight. So Sorry, Emily.
Fifth time in two weeks, Emily reflected morosely. With a sigh, she shut the screen off again.
All around her, people tapped away at their smartphones, the screen's backlight bouncing off spectacles in some cases, thumbs moving in rapid coordination in others. Emily wondered dully if she was somehow the one oddity her generation had managed to produce, who'd never really invested in a phone and lugged around an ancient oversized Motorola that had once belonged to her elder brother. Where was the appeal, she wondered, and just how many people did these compatriots of hers have to message within the stipulated five minutes?
Five years later, when Emily'd be just a sold as Amelia was now, she'd laugh at herself and call herself a hipster snowflake, and swipe a manicured thumb over her newly purchased IPhone, but that's a tale for another time.
She glanced again at Armin, who was deep in conversation with Christopher Thompson, the latter nodding emphatically, while the former spoke solely in conspiratorial whispers. Emily tried picturing random conversations in her head that the two could possibly be having when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
She looked up to find Amelia peering down at her with something akin to anxiety on her face.
"Can we speak - outside - for a moment?"
Emily followed her meekly - Amelia-at-work was a strangely intimidating specimen, despite her proclivity to lose her cool at professional meetings with ex-boyfriends.
"Em, can you do me favour?"
"Umm, sure, what is it?"
"D'you think you can ask Mr Campbell to send over the digitised site map?"
"Okay," Emily said slowly, trying to recall what the term even meant, "but didn't you say earlier in the meeting today that you guys already had it?"
The look of crestfallen desperation o Amelia's face would've been hilarious had it not been for the situation.
"I'll try and get it by this Thursday", Emily said placatingly, "Don't worry, the UAI people will never know."
Amelia drew herself to her full, dignified height - a good two inches taller than Emily - and said, "It's just a technical problem, to be honest. The museum should have sent us the copies ages ago - the UAI people can't fault us for that."
"Sure", said Emily, holding her tongue. As she followed Amelia back into the conference room, she reflected silently on how little of this partnership between UAI and Thompson & Lowell had to do with the actual building they had partnered to construct.
...
"But why not here?"
"Just - because."
"Because." He repeated with mock patience, "Because why, exactly?"
"You ask too many questions, McAllister."
"You never give enough answers, Barnett."
"It's a stupid question to begin with."
"Is it?" He smiled slyly, and she felt her grin widen.
"Yes, certainly."
"You could just answer me you know. It'd barely take a few seconds."
She felt something well within her chest - a childish urge to keep her silence and keep staring in his blue-green eyes and have him look back at her with that exquisite smile - as her resistance wore down with each passing second, and before she knew it, she'd given up all too gladly.
"Because only Beth calls me Amy."
His smile widened at his victory, "And who's Beth."
"My childhood friend in Britain."
"You're a funny girl, Amy across the Atlantic."
"Thank you, I was aiming for that."
The now-familiar knot in her stomach seemed to tighten as he laughed a deep booming laugh that shook his shoulders and crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"So", he asked, as his mirth subsided, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
...
"We've acquired the right for construction from the Civic works department", Amelia said, almost theatrically, and Emily watched Adam's eyes grow wide and Armin's frown go deeper.
Emily deduced the reaction would be the same if Amelia had offered them both a lap dance.
Shaking her head of such incriminating thoughts, Emily tried to force herself to focus on the meeting - as mind-numbingly dull as it was. Even despite the infinitesimally short email-checking break, the meeting had barely progressed on any front. They were still playing the same old record - rights, permits, land use and civic propriety - and Emily was fairly certain that her sixteen years of formal education had not intended this to be her ultimate destination in life. Stifling a yawn, she waited for the meeting to be over. Some conversations were just not worth listening to.
...
"D'you often write and drop poems around in Brooklyn?"
"Yes, of course," she answered sagely, her face devoid of expression, "Sometimes I do literary criticisms of popular books and leave them around for schoolchildren as well, you know - for help with their book reports."
"I see," he nodded solemnly in agreement, and Amelia wondered if she was, as was most probable, only dreaming this conversation
"Sarah didn't mention you were a poetess."
"I'm not - I just write sometimes for my own amusement."
"Your own amusement, is it?"
"Certainly."
"This one here," he said, glancing at the napkin in mock consternation, "is awfully sad for any intended amusement, don't you think?"
"I thrive off Eleanor Rigby, what would you know?"
His smile - warm and wide - felt like a prize. Something stirred within her chest at the very sight of it.
"On a serious note though," he pressed on, his smile barely diminished, as he looked in her eyes, "this poem is wonderful - it's so poignant - I spent days reading it over and over."
"You did?"
"Certainly", he repeated, without missing a beat, and Amelia smiled in response.
"I'm glad."
The two stood in amiable silence for a while.
"Why'd you throw it away, though?"
"I didn't," she replied earnestly, "I wrote it in a diner where I stopped for coffee and I remember putting it in my coat pocket. It must've fallen out on my way home."
"I found it near the Brooklyn Bridge outside an all-night diner's front door", he replied quietly, and Amelia pressed her lips together in a ghost of a smile.
"I don't believe in coincidences, just so we're clear."
"Oh I'm sure you don't, Amy across the Atlantic."
...
Emily watched with (mild) fascination as Amelia packed up after the meeting, meticulously avoiding Adam and Armin as everyone else in the room shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
First went the shiny laptop, then the endless piles of papers and drawings in a plastic file designated for the purpose. Then her leather bound notebook, and a variety of pencils she'd lent out during the meeting - it was interesting to watch how carefully Amelia folded each piece of paper before putting it in place - while a girl named Judith, who'd accompanied Adam and Armin, watched her with just as much interest. Catching her eye, Emily waved at the brown-eyed girl, who waved back merrily, and broke off to join the boys.
It took her a few seconds to realise that she was being beckoned over.
Feeling a little self-conscious - she knew far too much about them without ever having actually spoken to them - she walked over to the little group, who each greeted her enthusiastically, and even as she shook Armin's large hand ( Adam stuck to a polite hello) she reminded herself that every story had two sides.
"So you're the Met representative?"
"Guilty as charged."
"Are you like, a management intern?"
"I'm an intern, yeah," Emily relented, her self-consciousness back with full force, "but with the research cell - I was an Art and History major in college."
"Ooh, d'you paint, too?"
"It was art theory, actually," Emily replied coyly.
"You must come over 53rd and West sometime then", Armin added in enthusiastically, "We're trying to get a private school there to engage with Art theory at an elementary level and you can help us make suggestions with the course material."
"That sounds grand", Emily managed. An unfamiliar unease pooled in her stomach - when did she get so awkward around strangers?
"The meetings aren't very fun for you, are they?" Adam asked quietly, cutting across Judith and Armin who continued to chatter with each other about the school project. Emily shook her head non-commitally, and shrugged.
"I don't really understand corporate proceedings - I'm more of a hands-on research person, you know."
"I understand", Adam replied with a small smile.
The two continued to make small talk until Adam looked up, and stopped talking abruptly. Confused, Emily turned to find Amelia standing a few paces away, uncertainty on her face as she fidgeted with her laptop sleeve.
It was almost pitiful to watch.
"Oh, are you done Ames?"
"Yeah", Amelia replied quietly, looking Emily squarely in the eye, determinedly avoiding eye contact with the three people who stood beside her. "I was just wondering - did you want to grab a cup of coffee?"
"Sure, sounds great." said Emily, and turned around to face Adam, who was looking as resolutely at Amelia as she was not, "I'll see you around, then."
Adam nodded, and it took a second for Emily to notice the characteristically brash smile play upon his lips.
"Take care, Amy across the Atlantic", he called out to Amelia, who looked back with wide, almost fearful eyes, and turned around and walked off without waiting for Emily.
Author's Note - I'll be perfectly honest with you - this story has received far less feedback than I'd hoped, and a part of me fears it's because of its sheer mediocrity. Anyhow, it'd be nice to hear back from you guys. I'm struggling with writer's block these days, and am contemplating abandoning this story. Hopefully, it's just a phase, and will all work out on its own.
Please comment and vote - it helps with the writing process. :)