The Mathematician and I are on holiday. We’ve sent it on ahead.
The week before last week we had our Big Push, our ‘Throw everything at it’ endeavour to break the back of the invertebrate(1) Work. It didn’t work. We made fine progress and good doings, but the done didn’t give its seat to fun.
But Saturday last we thought we’d nearly cleared it.
“Just a few more days,” we tell ourselves. “Tuesday at the latest. Then we’ll be done.”
We nod. It seems reasonable.
“Shall we go out then?” I say. “I think we deserve a walk. You know, remind ourselves what the outside looks like.”
“Mm, sounds good. And we could skip the shopping, or do it later. Go down to the river, take some picsies of plants, get some sun — I don’t know the last time I made any vitamin D.”
“Plan. And we could meet The Sociologist at the café. It’s been … wow, it’s been a few weeks!”
“Yeah, we should. Send him a message?”
I get up and get my phone. “Done,” I say, making my way to the bathroom. “Fifteen minutes?”
“You need fifteen minutes for a shit?”
“No, we leave in fifteen minutes. Think that’s possible.”
It is, and when we leave half an hour later we debate the merits of “plausible”. But we do it outside, in the warm sun and city breeze.
“This is the farthest I’ve walked this week,” I say, as we pass the neighbours’ house. “Feels great!”
“Which way do you fancy walking?”
“I don’t care. How about that way?”
I point to a park that’s looking less brown since the work-week rain.
Oh, how we noodle and loaf, luxuriating in every step. Does the air smell sweeter? Ye-ope — it’s still Leipzig, but at least it’s not indoor air. (That would be scent of sweat, stale coffee, and labour.)
The river is gorgeous, the lush trees are gorgeous, the families of rowers … well, excluding the prick at the back playing Schlager music, they’re okay. We walk the tree-lined avenues, watch cyclists sporty and sanguine, orbit the flower garden.
“There’s a marquee tent,” I say, pointing to the normally unpitched-upon grass by the azaleas.
“A hen do?” says The Mathematician. “I just see women in nice dresses … a stack of presents …”
“And more bad music,” I grumble as we near.
I’m not a rancour monkey and I’m a mid-level player of Live and Let Live, but days of wood-chip-wallpaper confinement have frazzled my noggin a smidge.
“You’re glaring,” says The Mathematician.
“I am?”
“Yep. Is your face broken?”
“Um, no?”
“Alright. Then try a different set of muscles. The ‘smile’ ones maybe. I’d even settle for ‘raised eyebrows’. Come on, we’re outside! The weather’s lovely!”
I try smile face. I manage grin-pinched.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I’m kind of hungry.”
She thinks about it.
“Well, I could eat …“
“I’ll ask The Sociologist if he wants to join us then.”
“Okay.”
She goes off to ID a few more plants and take some shots of trees, and I send the message.
“So?” she asks when I join her.
“Just eaten. Says meeting at 2 in the café’s alright.”
“Good, good. You know, I am getting a little hungry …”
We dine outside in the sunshine. When we reach the café, we see The Sociologist is already there, sitting out front talking to Sehnsucht. We grab some coffee, join them, chat. The hours pass. The awning comes out. (Some of us sizzle in moonlight. I’m told it’s the Irish genes.) We decide to skip the shopping — go next week, we’ll have time.
Easy Rider comes by briefly, dog in tow (in charge). He joins us for a bit, goes inside, comes back out to look for his dog, gets on his bike, comes back 10 minutes later, alone.
“Have you seen him?” he asks.
We all shake our heads.
“Damn.”
“Have you checked the Vietnamese?” I say, pointing. “He looked a bit hungry.”
“Oh right. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
But he’s not there either. He magically reappears on the hour, like some hairy continuity error. Happy days.
The Mathematician and I amble home close to closing time, cook, and settle down for the night, content.
“Feels good,” I say. “To have done something different.”
The Mathematician nods.
“Just a few more days,” she says, “then we can enjoy the rest of our holiday.”
(A few more days later.)
“You done yet?
“No.”
“Close?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe Thursday too.”
“Yeah, same. How about we try to get to bed before 11 today.”
“Sounds good.”
(We don’t.)
Plato’s Cave, where the world passes by in shadowy forms on the wall. Twelve hours tied to a desk each day has me doubting the fabric of the world. Each day bleeds into the next — each holiday day. Weren’t we supposed to be out there seeing stuff — real stuff? Catching a train or riding a bike or sailing? But there’s only the manuscript of a novel and unwritten lines of code for us both. And we love it. We do. They’re our children. We’re nurturing our children. We couldn’t possibly abandon them and have fun. So reckless …
Just one more day.
So we cobble together meals with what we have (we skipped the shopping, remember?). And they were great. And making them was great, and eating them too — a mini break.
And then a whole week passes. Wow. A week. We finish our projects, put them to bed. Are we satisfied? I think we will be, when we recover. We’re both just nubs of candles, now. And almost out of cocoa.
—
(1) I know
