Ona.pl

He met her by chance, on a Wednesday or Thursday; he doesn't remember exactly. He only remembers drinking strong coffee and it was raining outside. He was staying up late at the office then, as he did every day. Because it was in the office that he met her – surrounded by faxes, computers, and unread documents spread out on his desk.

It was funny, but her statement about the infinity of the horizon, which she wanted to feel while standing in the middle of the desert, made him think of kilograms of sand creeping into every nook and cranny of his sweaty body. He felt strange with this thought, because the phrase, which had repeatedly occurred to him, carries a strange impulse toward an unprecedented level of alienation: according to him, in the desert, one can only feel loneliness, and at times, that's exactly what he felt. This was also how he understood the infinity of the horizon she mentioned – as one great loneliness.

Loneliness in infinity – he had been experiencing it since October 4, 2002. It was then that "the infinite ended," the infinite that had driven him to lock himself away in his solitude, in the dungeons of swirling thoughts mixed with night sweat and the contempt of humanity at the sight of a woman.

Never again – he said then...

***

Why did he remember her? Perhaps because of this desert? Perhaps because of the horizon? Or perhaps because of her indifference to vomiting, which she spoke of quite casually?

He doesn't know. Despite everything, he remembered her. He remembered her as he had first met her, lost in thought and a bit frightened. She looked at him warily, as if the image on the film would go nowhere, or remain hidden, hidden within the camera that had produced it.

He remembered her and stored her in his memory. In his own memory and in his computer's.

Because he had first seen her online, on the online service of a daily newspaper, a widely read one, by the way. He didn't know why he'd logged onto the site, or why he'd written her a few sentences that made no sense. He felt she posed no threat to him, and it wasn't about the anonymity of the global network. He simply wanted to get to know her, to know her name, what she was like when she laughed and what she was like when autumn arrived.

(Maybe this time...?)

Her gaze seemed distrustful and timid, misty and unapproachable. Did she always have that expression? Or was she afraid of something when the photo was taken, trying to avoid something? He wanted to know that too, though he never asked.

She replied the second day. He doesn't remember exactly what she wrote, but the fact that she replied meant a lot to him. But in her words, she seemed very stern and decisive, completely different from the thoughtful woman in the photo. It seemed to him that she was trying to hide herself with her words and punish herself for something. This severity puzzled him. He asked himself what he was actually experiencing when he thought about this woman, why her and not someone else. He asked, though his questions never reached her, deleted from the screen immediately after writing them. He didn't send them, but instead sent others, less daring ones.

And then every morning, he logged on online and, with the curiosity of a teenager, discovered her thoughts.

Beautiful thoughts.

He had never suspected he could open up so much to a stranger, and talk so openly to a stranger. He had never spoken to anyone like that before – he laughed when she laughed, pondered when she was lost in thought, remained silent when she was silent…

He wanted to meet her in real life, but she didn't seek it. And although he never directly asked her to meet, and although she never refused, he sadly discovered in the recesses of her words that she wasn't waiting for a meeting within him. He didn't understand this, though he realized he had no right to ask her for anything. So he didn't ask, though he still hoped to see her someday.

***

One day she disappeared. Vanished with the press of a single button... He couldn't believe it, and neither could his subconscious, which searched the screen for messages every morning.

"My presence here has ended. I'm leaving town. If you'd like to write sometime, I'm leaving you my address..." he read one morning, on Wednesday or Thursday; he can't remember exactly. He only remembers that the sun was shining outside the window for the first time in several weeks, but that meant nothing to him.

And then the grayness of everyday life closed him off from the world. He felt the emptiness of her departure. And although he knew that warmer times would come and everything would somehow fall into place, and there were some good things happening in his life, it was difficult.

He didn't want to write to her because he didn't want to be reminded of his existence anymore. Besides, his words would express emptiness, and he had no intention of complaining about his loneliness.

"Because no one tells you, when you're in labor pains, that things will get easier." And it wasn't any easier.

He didn't write either because, in a sense, he felt robbed of what had existed between them. And although he knew she could no longer write to him, his pride prevented him from revealing how much he cared for her.

That's why he didn't write.

He also didn't write because he suspected her thoughts were meant for someone else...

Then, trying to forget about her, he returned, despite himself, to where he had met her – staring at the tiny speck of a camera, lost in thought, a little frightened. But she no longer looked, wondered, or occupied her thoughts... Because she wasn't there...

And because she wasn't there, other conversations, often pleasant and spontaneous, no longer brought him such joy. Because they weren't conversations with her.

Sometimes, reading a letter, he was reminded of winter and the excitement of seeing a message from her, but what now enveloped him was only a semblance of that joy.

***

But they met again.

It didn't matter how, it didn't matter where.

And it didn't matter how he put what happened into words. What matters to him is that it happened at all.

And he no longer hides the fact that he cares about her, because he doesn't want to hide it anymore. He wants to scream about it!

And he doesn't want to just keep thinking about her, unable to look into her eyes, unable to touch her face.

And he no longer wants to, can't be proud. Not this time.

Because he wants her to stay, simply stay...

***

His wife.