May 12, late, very late...
I ran out the door and through the streets like a maniac, took the subway to Columbus Circle and then kept running. Blind to the passersby. Blind to the city lights, the laughter, the fighting. I knew this route by heart, having traveled it several times in my imagination since my single visit to the gallery.
And then I was there. Standing in the center island, looking across the street and into the one ground-floor window that twinkled with light. He was there. Alone. Leaning against the counter and writing fast and furiously. Mechanically, I lowered myself onto the cold iron bench and studied his every move. What was he writing? What was he thinking as he looked intently at his work? I remained in this trancelike state until he threw down his pen and hurried to the window.
In a panic, I sank back, half hidden by the shrubbery. He glanced around and returned to the counter. I looked at my watch as it struck midnight. How much longer would he wait? Five minutes passed. He continued to write. Ten minutes.
Then, in what seemed like a single instant, he slammed his notebook shut, hurried to the door, dimmed the lights and turned his key in the lock. I wanted to run to him as he stood there, looking left and right and shaking his head. But I didn't move. Something held me frozen to the spot. Frozen until he had rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
My eyes settled on my watch again. 12:30 a.m. I had come all this way to sit on a bench and study Will from afar. I was an idiot. Who was I kidding? An imaginary force wasn't holding me back. I was holding myself back, sheltering myself from the truth, from Will, from everything that terrified me. As I had always done.
I wanted to kick myself out of frustration, yet at the same time, I felt a perverse twinge of pride regarding my self-control. Finally, I was in charge. At the moment, that sensation outweighed any other.
An hour later, I pulled the comforter up to my chin and gazed at the moonlight that sent a dewy beam across the pages I had been filling for months with my sloppy, lopsided writing. Destiny and her stories had wreaked havoc on my life. But for some strange reason, the craziness she brought had nearly washed away my illness. As if there wasn't room for it any more. Was it too early to cry out the word recovery? Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't want to jinx myself.
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