Promise

From what I’ve seen so far I can’t believe my eyes, and what a nice surprise.—David Bazan

A simple matter of ordering, one lace over another, over the other and pull. This was to be a symbol of his affection in the absence of his devotion, which he knew not how to give. That would come later if it came at all; this was a gift, a handmade bracelet. He had chosen the colors, black, red, light and dark blue. When he tied it around her wrist he could see that it was too big. Her wrists were skinny—far skinnier than his, so he untied it and went to put it on a second time. “Uh, you know,” she said, “that’s ok. I’ve already got one, and I never wear it.” He was thinking of what to say, stunned. She was already gone. She had ducked into her class late—it was in Moss Hall, which looked nothing like a hall and everything like a hut. A large professor was well under way with her heavy intoning: “…that God would have no pity on those who could not work up the will to save their very own souls…that the exigencies of the state after the fall were patently clear to anyone who could see…was enough to motivate all and only those who could discern the value of being…and that those who undervalued their existence should not serve as objects of sympathy…”

That was the kind of nonsense he couldn’t listen to much of, though the mass of the door cut off the rest of her speech and freed his mind to work on more worldly things, so his patience wasn’t much tested. He began to unravel the bracelet; he felt he had to. There was no sense in dwelling on it. It was made and could be unmade—a kind of happy symmetry not in everything. If he were younger he might lose sleep over the event of his rejection. But he would see her again and try a different tack. Perhaps he would work on a symbol of his [x]—now that he knew how to give it, the matter was not a great deal more taxing.

A letter, that would express what he felt without fail and in an intelligible script. Slowly he dragged out each letter, the words were empty, but the page was full, and that alone would signify. It was his [x], after all, that he was going for, a kind of sweat slick to where they buried the extra letters under an ‘…’.

It was finished. It said all it needed to say. But, and he’d guessed it from the start, he couldn’t hand it to her. Nor even could he simply let it drop at her feet for her to find it. No it wasn’t meant to be seen by her eyes or anyone else’s. It was his after all, his being in sum. How very little must he value it to give it away—how much must he value it to keep it, or, and here she interrupted: “What’s that?” “A letter,” he said, “for you.”

She stood there before him, reading it immediately. Not what he’d expected she’d do—don’t people take letters to read later?

“It’s very nice” she said at last and handed it back to him.

But he’d learned: “No. Keep it.”

And she did.