“Sorry Jar, but right now I feel like socialising is just saying things that you don’t care about, and strongly expressing opinions that you’d think weak when alone.”
“I don’t care, you’re probably right.”
“You would say that.”
“Why’d you call me ‘Jar’? You’ve never called me that before.”
“Well we haven’t known each other that long, doofus. It’s just shortening it; you shorten mine.”
“True, but no one really shortens Jarvis, I didn’t notice.”
“They should, it’s a terrible name.”
“I’ll give you that!”
“Jar’s good, and hey, you get to pick what kind of Jar you are. Is it like a jar of jam? Peanut butter? Or vegemite?”
“I think I’m more like a jar of paint, a small one that can be used for anything. I can be emptied and used for storage, pencils and the like. You could even sterilise me and drink coffee from me. Instant coffee too, just like the old days. Not my old days, someone else’s. Big ole, wake me up and let the world in cups of coffee. Y’know, the kind that thoughts and lips linger over. The kind of cup that you’re never sure of finishing while it’s warm; Inspiration or love may just take you.
“Or hillbillies could put road kill in me.”
She didn’t respond for a good while and I felt angry, tired, and then suddenly aware of the air’s staleness and the pressure of my fingers on my eyelids. When I took them away and licked them, my tongue was sluggish. There was no response from her, just the computer’s pallid emptiness, so I swung around to watch the ceiling fan spin, and wonder why the light-bulb didn’t spin too.
When I moved into this place it was old, (supposedly) dank and ugly, so I started telling people that it was simply from a bygone era and that it was defiantly staying that way. I believed it, but they would quietly think that I was just lazy and living in an old and useless building; A nice area though.
The main room here really likes me. I’ve never had a cold in this place and I still glaze over (in the good, giddy way) when looking at it. There’s the comforting smell of cold, heavily varnished, forty year old timber, which wraps around you in a persistent but unobtrusive way. Shelves, crammed with books and photo albums, almost touch the high ceilings and large, leather bound diaries would give them the air that the room deserves but, I just can’t write. At least, not often enough to lock down those particular thoughts which take you by surprise. Those indescribable moments that come like rabid events splitting right through your life and leaving a chasm in your memory with just a version of yourself on either side, both bemused and unconnected to the vortex of pain or passion between them. Those things, and so much more, are what I want to keep, rather than stare at the blank, faded lime, cracked walls.
“Okay, sorry, was making tea. Go ahead and tell me about this ‘description’ you wrote about me.”
“Alright, but remember that fiction is better than truth, I just like the way words sound… ‘She had a tomboy gait with a kind of beauty that was both held perfectly within, yet unrestrained by, a silken smile with sharply curving lines, a pointed nose and flippant eyes. At once paralysing with elfin charm, and enlivening with humble and pensive warmth. It seemed as though, to find her flaws would only prove that beauty is truly tangible and real, yet she offered no comfort to you, and you could feel as though you’ve blown everything, yet still fall completely in love with her.’
“So that’s kind of flattering for the sake of flattering isn’t it?”
“Yes. If it wasn’t about me, then sure, it would be very flattering. You’re probably a good writer, but I don’t know, please don’t fall in love with me, I don’t want your love, it makes me feel fake. “
“I don’t want to fall in love with you… I want you to fall in love with me and then I’ll be able to just be okay with you around me.”
“Hah. You are a jar of paint… and I don’t know what colour I want in my room.”
“Well, look at that, at least you’re socialising!”
“Mmmn, yeah. And I don’t know if I changed my opinion yet. Sorry.”