A spectacle, a public event, something that should be private. Lights and cameras, all a big show.
“They paid me to do this, they offered to buy my right to the tory, what do they know? What have you done? My marriage ended, you knew it would, you could have waited. I can’t do this. I won’t be exposed this way.”
In the interview, he had mentione her name. Realizing in an instant what he had done, he tried to put the Genie back in the bottle, the cat back into the bag. The interview ended abruptly. He rushed from the scene, came straight away to see me, unnerved.
The pageant that fed him attention became a mod, all too real, demanding. I didn’t want them to do this, I can’t make them stop. I’m a captive, a puppet, performance art gone mad, a work unfolding. I never dreamed it would evolve this way.
Sending my letters into the deep rolling water, my private communication became front page news. My dream of destiny became a strong arm.
“I didn’t call because I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You did more than disturb me, you wanker.”
“I couldn’t forsee this outcome.”
“In the first place, you clearly intended to draw me out. Secondly, who cares what you thought the outcome would be. Reckless is not better than malicious.
She left. Depression followed. All purpose drained.
Write the crowd insisted, write more and again.
A reason, the reason, his eyes once dazzled had grown dull, nearly blinded, never hearing my pleas to mindfulness, to attend the moment. His dream pierced, deflated, destroyed, blown, emptied of purpose, he tried to keep going but the sudden, infinite and irrevocable departure of Marylou who was already long gone except in his mind, left him bereft of direction.
I knew where he was headed, his romance with Goethe, I didn’t know how to reach him. His interactions were dull but never doomed. He gave no reason to attract help but slip into inaction, into despair, into silence, sealed.
They found his body downstream, in the reeds.