Prologue
So much of Connor's and her story had been told through pivots. These effortless and fluid turns, always in one motion, could easily be used to characterize that entire week so many months ago. Their introduction had ended with a pivot. A second one had carried them to their climax. To this day, he was having difficulty recovering from the third. Not knowing what was to come had often stopped Connor from making specific pleas, but in this he was resolute: one more pivot was all he desired. Maybe this pivots business explained how he could feel such calm when that which he was about to do should have made him so much more conflicted. Maybe in light of his and her history with these reversals, he could see this act as carrying their story forward instead of as abandonment.
Minutes before, Connor had walked purposefully back into his office with a conviction in his step which had been missing of late. This morning hadn't been typical and this was for the better. First, he had survived a commute to the office which could have proved tumultuous and had followed that with a productive morning. Finally, he had parlayed this momentum into a pleasantly earned lunch. After this recess in his day, he'd expected more of the same as he had sat down peacefully in the large chair behind his desk. He had straightened the back of his 6'1" frame and reached for the tan dog-eared folder before him. He'd opened the cover, given both the photos and data a cursory glance and had gone so far as to reach for a pen before reality had hit him with a thud. All at once, Connor had felt the gnawing effect of dozens of tiny eyes staring back at him from across the room – now, minutes later, they probed deeper into him still. Finally, Connor shook his head and breathed a short exhale through his nose as he conceded that he'd almost let himself do it again.
Their dance had been exquisite and intoxicating, but even the most wonderful dances had to end. Connor looked across the room, as he did at least once an hour, directly into the eyes which had penetrated him moments before. His memory longingly massaged each delicate section in the shrine that he'd assembled in the corner of his office within moments of his return from Japan. As if out of habit, he cataloged each piece once again and then looked to the floor; to the empty cardboard packing box he'd brought from home a few mornings before.
"Yes," he repeated out loud hoping it would embolden him, "it's time."
Like a bride being led reluctantly down the aisle to a prearranged marriage, Connor moved slowly across the room as if on a rusty moving walkway. He began taking the items off of his wall one at a time and encased each one carefully in tissue paper before placing them between pieces of cardboard in the box at his feet. What this preservation, especially since most were little more than pieces of paper, would maintain this collection for, that he couldn't say. Would all of this be reflected upon as fantasy or tragedy? He had no answer there either. What he did know was that of the many concerns which were at hand, little to do with Osaka felt current.
Connor wrapped ticket stubs written in Japanese and postcards of a castle which seemed even further now than thousands of miles away. He treated most of the trinkets with the same escalated level of deference, but afforded special attention to a stack of scribbled-upon napkins which had been held together by a single green pushpin through their corner. Next to these, he set that week's newspaper advertisements for travel discounts to Asia. The collection of listings for sales and specials brought an ironic smirk to Connor's face. How many weeks had he looked through similar ads for just the right travel deal when the truth was that he would have spent any amount of money to get just one more day there? Without hesitation, he would have returned his body in a moment to where his attention had resided since he'd come home; if only the opportunity had ever been his to have. At no time had there been anything cost prohibitive about the equation. Steadily, Connor continued through this eclectic, and often ambiguous, collection. Some of the items, like a red matchbook with gold lettering were identifiable only to him. Still, he knew each item and its role in the storyline intimately.
It didn't take long before his office, devoid of these tiny mementos, returned to the bland stacks of folders and posted notes which it had been before that rapturous week so long ago. Still, there was something honest about the absence of fantasy and Connor was ready to face this new reality, however colorless it felt to him at the moment. Later, he would need to rearrange things a bit so as not to be working in a crowded room with one empty corner, but for now the void seemed to fit. He wasn't ready to forget that something very precious had occupied this space, only to no longer get lost in the minutiae of each detail. With less of a burden upon him, Connor returned to his chair more easily than he'd left it minutes before. He was almost going to allow himself to continue with his day as if the job were done, and maybe for now it was, but he had to at least acknowledge that there was still one item which steadfastly remained.
Returning to his disassembled memorial, Connor took a long look at the simple redwood picture frame with it's out of focus photo and surrendered a single deep sigh.
"Yeah, maybe you get to stay," he whispered in a barely audible tone. "Tomorrow, today, always fighting time aren't we? After all, you," he placed his index finger upon the glass though his focus was far beyond it, "may be timeless." After a few moments pause, he continued to speak quietly; cradling the frame in his hands. "The rest of us, we have to live in this place where each moment is felt. This hasn't been easy for either of us and it seems harder each day. How did I get here?" He looked up for a moment before shifting the attention of his hushed address to the four walls of his office, "and for wherever I did go, for all of that journeying, how am I still here now?" He closed his eyes tightly and held them shut as he did so often whenever a moment of darkness allowed him his deliverance. As he reopened them, he returned his focus to the picture. "What is it about your homeland that bewitches me still? I know what you said, 'it's all in the balance,' but where is the center of it all? Where was the beginning, where's the end?"
Connor set the frame back on the table, centering it so as to obscure the newly created empty space. He reached over, as he had hundreds of times before, and traced a simple circle around the image in the picture as he whispered, "Of course you can stay. Who am I to tell you when your deadline to reach the present has expired? But, I mean, if you are coming," he paused and swallowed hard before continuing, "could you please hurry?" Connor clenched his jaw, took a deep breath and looked at the packing he'd done minutes before. Maybe he had done enough cleaning for one day. There was no hurry to finish it all. Maybe leaving one connection to the past was permissible. Plus, one never knew when the past, eager for one final dance, might reach back out to the present.
