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1995
Literary Art
Visual Art
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Beyond Faith
Jason Orsini
We both worked in the same department in a big company. She was new to us, her name was Elizabeth, and we accepted her with open arms and comfort. She seemed to shy away from our little games and jokes, techniques we use to make work a little more like play. She was shy, but we all figured it was just because she did not know us yet. It happens to everyone.
She was a very good writer. She never had any mistakes in her reports, and was always polite. She had a special articulation to her writing, a new style that was greatly appreciated in our department. I complimented her on her work, and she just said thank you, and continued in her everyday tasks. I was kind of turned off by her abruptness, but I figured she still did not know us yet, therefore dismissing her demeanor.
One afternoon, I asked Elizabeth out on a dinner date. I was attracted to her in a physical way, and I thought she might have had an attraction towards me also. She must have, she said yes.
That Friday night, we went on a romantic date to a local restaurant, familiar to me, but new to her because she had just moved into town for the job. We talked about things you might talk about to your aunt or uncle, you know, about work, the president, or the weather. It seemed funny that she didn't talk about any family, but I did not press the issue. After dinner we went back to my place and had sex. It was a wonderful, intimate moment. Nothing sleezy or violent, but two people giving pleasure to each other in a respectful way. We were both happy about it, and never talked about it. We just continued talking about trivial things to keep the conversation alive over dinner dates, walks on the beach, and time spent giving each other pleasure.
Yesterday, our department was informed that Elizabeth had been struck by a drunk driver while she was out walking at night. She died instantly. The local priest of the town came to clear out her desk and office space. I asked who was going to deliver the eulogy. He said he tried to contact a family member, but did not find a trace of a mother, father, or next of kin. I told the priest that I wanted to deliver the eulogy al ihe service. I did this because I felt as though I was the closest person to Elizabeth, as far as I knew.
After many phone calls from her personal file, I found out that her family had been killed two years before. With this, the only people I could get information from was the people in our department. I asked Mark, who worked with Elizabeth on a few projects. She said that Elizabeth never talked about her personal life, but liked to talk about her writing. She was really into her writing. I went to the girls in the department, figuring maybe, hopefully, that she might have shared herself with other females. They all said the same thing. She never really talked about herself, except for her writing. She was a really good writer.
I turned the job of delivering the eulogy back over to the priest, ashamed that I had shared the most intimate thing two people could possibly share, and at the same time, not knowing what her biggest dream was, what her mom and dad were like, or her favorite color. I felt embarrassed that I did not know her the way I should have known her, on a deeper level than mere pleasure. I hung my head low, not accepting the fact that I wanted to know her, her smile and her playful gestures, only to realize that it was too late. When the priest turned to me and asked why I had given the job back, I replied, "I don't know anything about her, except that she was a good writer, she was a good writer..."
Maybe getting to know somebody's heart is the most intimate pleasure in the world. Maybe getting to know someone's favorite color is more important than the estranged act of sex. I must now step back, look into myself and feel pain. And, Good-Bye Elizabeth.
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