“I’m throwing a surprise party,” she said.
We’d sought refuge from the rain under the same protruding edge. I was returning from the library, and she the grocery store.
“Who is it for,” I asked.
She fell silent. The question had offended her.
“We are allowed to celebrate the dead,” she asserted coldly.
I prefer not to live a life in judgement of otherness.
“I bought all of her favourite drinks and snacks,” she continued, recuperating.
“I’m thirsty,” I replied.
“Just stick your tongue and take in the rain.”
I obeyed her command.
“I was relieved when she died,” she said unsolicitedly. “Because then I could let go of all my anger.”
I closed my mouth, swallowed and turned my attention back to her.
There are always a few people in my life I harbour anger towards. Most of the scenes involved neglect and thwarted expectations. Historically excluded, most of my desires are the desire for inclusion. As soon as I sense the erection of a wall, I duck for impact. In a sense, I empathized with her foreign perspective on a familiar experience, but I wanted to go further: locate a new place to end with our unexpectedly enlivening conversation.
“I will only be relieved from my suffering when I’m dead,” I said.
She didn’t respond—as if I hadn’t said anything—and took out her pill box.
“What is that?”
“A&A.”
“I used to be on those.”
“They help me keep on moving on.”
The rain was finally beginning to die down.
“I wish I’d brought my umbrella with me,” I said. “It’s not too far now.”
“Here,” she said, unzipping her purse: “Borrow mine.”
I was perplexed as she extended it to me, unbuttoned the strap.
“Why didn’t you use it,” I asked.
“There’s a hole in it. You get wet in one place no matter how hard you try.”
“But how will I return it,” I said, taking it in my hand, my thirst unbearable.
“I have plenty more at our home. My sister liked umbrellas.”
“I hope your party goes well,” I said, opening the umbrella, which bloomed like limp flower suddenly gone erect.
“Your ego gets in the way of your happiness,” she said. “You have to realize you’ve become dependent on other people’s validation and the endless upset has become a fuel source. The real stuff can only come from within you. For a long time you have not been living your life.”
I didn’t disagree: but now I—her supplicant—was desperate for an answer.
“So what do I do?”
She motioned zipping her lips shut, locking the key and throwing it away.
“It was nice meeting you…”
“Amalthea,” she said, breaking her vow of silence. “My sister’s was Adrastea.”
The only part of me that got wet was the bald spot on the top of my head.