S.S.B

Chapter 16 (S.S.B.)

Despite Gregory’s continual blogging, and computer projects he rarely told people what he did. If some ever asked over a meal he’d mutter ‘computers’ and ‘programming’. They come out as soft echoes, as if Gregory himself was not yet sure that he actually did these things.

The fact was that he had a secret. I was a long, tedious and heated mystery he kept to himself. He was so secretive about it that he’d only once mentioned it to a single person. When he did it he felt relieved. It was that same feeling you got after finally getting the hang of giving a woman her type of orgasm (and not yours).

This person was a therapist about three blocks down from where Gregory stayed. When discussing this with the Narrator, Gregory had been most determined that the ‘was’ be emphasized. He said this because just like Mrs. Hennington was a therapist, she also was an avid smoker, talker, and cat collector.

Gregory could remember whoever he met. He was told once by a mad girlfriend, that he remembered too much. She replaced the phrase with the word ‘grudge’ and other bits of punctuation that didn’t seem to make sense at the time. She was either mistaken or (as he had put it) mentally ill. The girlfriend was struggling to accept both sides of the arguments, and so in a fit of confusion she dumped Gregory with the rest of the topic onto the tarmac, at thirty miles an hour.

All of these were facts were true at the time. It all made sense if you could sit down and reason it all out. Reason seemed to be a metaphorical spanner that jammed up emotions, and the general movement of a relationship. Gregory was still miles away from realizing this, and even if he wasn’t…nothing would have stopped Stephanie behind the wheel of her new Beetle.

Events moved with a hidden momentum, sometimes days afterwards. Images came back, and your focus was a few more days old, but five years more mature. There was clarity from the anesthetized hospital bad he lay on. The dragging days, the dying patients and the endless soap operas blaring through the television sets seemed to focus your mind a little.

 

PhilosopherPoet

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