Don't Touch
02 Apr 2021Today’s prompt: “Write about two characters who have known each other for a long time, and give one of them a secret.”
You notice your friend Jen at the park. She’s sitting on the ground, leaning back against a tree, her eyes closed. There’s a book resting on her lap. Her face has that ever-present sense of focus, but she seems more relaxed than you’ve ever seen her.
Jen has always had this certain intensity about her. At first she seems standoffish – when you were introduced to her and stuck out your hand, she shrank back. “I don’t like to be touched,” she said. Her shyness around crowds, her nervousness in enclosed spaces – you once caught her rushing out of a packed house party and hyperventilating in the back yard. But when she’s more composed, she brings a different kind of intensity. Her laugh is infectious and her smile is warm. People gravitate toward her, drawn to her. And even just the way she interacts with the world – there’s a certain zen to it. The way she pauses just before pushing a door open or picking up a cup. It’s almost like she’s saying to herself, “This is a door” or “This is a cup,” reassuring herself of the world before she engages with it.
She seems so peaceful now. You almost don’t want to disturb her. So you say it very softly at first: “Jen.”
Jen doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t even open her eyes. So you say it a little louder: “Hey, Jen.”
Still no reaction. You know she’s said she doesn’t like it when people touch her, but at this point you’re kind of worried. Just a tap on the shoulder wouldn’t hurt, right?
You’ve just made contact with Jen’s skin when she jolts up, shouting “No wait don’t–”
The world goes black. You’re in a pitch-black nothing. You’ve never been in darkness this absolute. There’s a chill in the air, a biting wind, and nothing.
“Jen?” you call out. The name echoes.
“I’m sorry,” her voice echoes back plaintively. “I didn’t know you were going to do that.”
“What is this place?” you say. Is this place Is this place Is this place echoes over and over.
“I call it the anteroom,” Jennifer replies. “Listen. There’s something I have to tell you.” Her voice seems very far away.
“What is it?”
“I’m part black hole.”
“What? That’s not possible.”
“Maybe not, but it’s what I am.”
“How does that even work?”
“The me that you see walking around? I think of that as my shell. It’s a barrier that keeps me from absorbing all of the light, all of the air, all of the ground, everything. But anything that touches me gets pulled into me, unless I’m able to acclimate to it in time. I have to kind of rearrange my molecules so I can pick up my car keys or sit down on a couch.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It takes an immense amount of focus just to exist in the world.”
“Wait, is that why – you’re not really afraid of dogs, are you?”
“I’ve had a German shepherd and two terriers disappear inside me because I couldn’t get away in time. People should teach their dogs not to jump on people. You never know what can happen.”
“Oh my god, when Tony disappeared, was that because….”
“Yes. He was trying so hard to be what I needed in a boyfriend. He let me take the lead whenever we kissed. He let me guide his hand when we were, uh, intimate. But one day I was frying some eggs and he came up behind me and put his arms around me and poof.”
“We thought he’d left you. We thought he’d skipped town.”
“It was easier to let you think that.” She pauses. There’s a fluttering sound. “Listen. I’m really sorry, but I can’t keep this up forever. To keep you in the anteroom, I have to focus. And that’s focus I need to not pull in the rest of the world.”
The sound – it’s like the pages of a book being flipped by the wind. The book she was reading in the park.
“Goodbye,” Jen says. “I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.”
The sounds of the book disappear. There’s a few more skittering noises. Bark, maybe, from the tree? And then there is void.