Unfinished...

THE PEN AND NOTEBOOK

She sat silent, flipping the pen around in circles in the one hand, the other hand softly caressing the long strands of grass beneath her. And then, with a sudden start, the pen began in swift, smooth movements, to spill her thoughts and dreams across the empty notebook pages. The suns rays warmed her back as she wrote, ignorant of the hours passing. Her pen and notebook took her to far away places, allowed her to escape the doldrums of her loneliness. There, inside her notebook, she was the hero, she was able to accomplish all she set her mind to, and always for the good of others. And her imagination would take her across deserts and oceans, to mountains and jungles full of adventure and destiny and purpose. There was always heartache and loneliness and despair, but good and hope triumphed in the end. Her stories were her life – in them, she found friends and foes alike, all who seemed to teach her and guide her in how to live. Her pen and notebook came with her, wherever she went.

Her favorite Sunday afternoon activity involved pen-shopping at the local mall’s bookstore. In this particular store, she put each pen to the test, searching for just the right feel, the perfect touch to the paper. When she found the One, she’d purchase at least 3 of them, so she’d have plenty to last her through the long hours to come.

She never thought to publish her stories. They were hers, why would they interest anyone else?

One day a young man, her peer in age, came knocking at their door. She assumed her mother was trusting enough of her choice in friends, since she didn’t ask why he’d come asking to take her for a walk.

She’d met him once before, at school – she thought she remembered him in her literature class a few years back.

They made small talk for a while as they walked along the road towards the riverbed. He was to graduate that year, and move away for further studies in another province. He intended to become a doctor. She nodded politely, internally undone by his ambitious spirit.

“What about you?” He asked. “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

She fumbled for a reply, and finally managed to mumble something about writing, maybe working for a journal of some sort.

“You like to write?” He queried.

She glanced up at his face suddenly, surprised by the question. Her writing was the part of her life she spoke to no one about. How had it managed to come up in this conversation of all places, with a man she hardly knew?

She studied his face for a moment – its worn, darkened skin spoke of hours spent in the outdoors, whether helping weed out his grandmother’s garden or hunting elk alongside his father. Ocean blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He was handsome, strongly built, though narrow shoulders. He held his head high, stood straight, self-confident, but not arrogant.

“I like to write.” She finally replied.

They came up to the bridge, and with a glance exchanged, decided to walk beneath the road along the river bank. They stumbled down one after another until they were underneath the bridge. The river lapped the dusty sides of the bank, as a thirsty dog licks out the last drop of water in his water-bowl after a long jaunt in the park. A little higher up, towering oak trees offered their shade to the river-life; one, aged and broken, created a bridge across the water. There was peace in this place.

He didn’t press her to elaborate, so they treaded the trail in quiet for a time. At long last, he broke the silence, the sun beginning to fall behind the tree line. He stopped walking and said, “My father owns a successful business in town. His secretary just left town a week back, and he’s looking for a replacement. Your parents say you are skilled with a pen, and have a keen sense of organization, and that you give much attention to detail. Do you think you’d be interested?”

“A job? Working? Me?” She didn’t know what to think. She gave him a long stare, searching his eyes for any kind of clue as to why he’d ask her.

He gave her a moment, then replied, “Well, your parents recommended you, you know.”

“Hm. Yes, my parents…” her voice trailed off.

They turned around and began to walk back.

“How much does it pay?” She finally asked.

“Oh, not much. But it will be a good first job, or so they say. You know, for the resume and all.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” She said. “How many hours?”

“15.”

“And my parents know about this?”

“Oh yes. In fact, they specifically requested that I be the one to make you the offer. I think they wanted this to be your decision.” His voice was not condescending.

She stopped and turned toward him, reaching out her hand. “Ok. It’s a deal. When do I start?”

From that moment on, 15 hours of her week, were spent side by side this young man’s father, typing out meeting minutes, answering and redirecting phone calls, and sending letters to Very Important People. He was a kind man to work for, though he did not give her much attention, except to direct and instruct her in the responsibilities of the job.

Every day around lunch time, the young man would visit the office, bringing sandwiches and soda for all employed in the small office. She would watch the door, eagerly awaiting his arrival, not because her stomach was aching for lunch, but because her soul longed for the opportunity to talk to him again, to see his eyes sparkles as they exchanged silent laughter together at her co-workers talk business around them, conversations much too technical for them to make sense of. And he always brought her a turkey and Swiss cheese melted on rye, her personal preference, though she’d never actually told him that it was her favorite. In the back of her mind, she wondered how he knew. She wondered if he’d just made a lucky guess, or if he’d had the courage to actually ask her parents, who knew full well she’d never stand for a peanut butter and jelly, or roast beef with cheddar. But she preferred to keep it a mystery. It made her wonder what else he knew about her without her telling him.

And then one day, he stopped coming in...