If it didn’t mean a lot of work and actually bringing himself to care, Martin Landover would have wanted to save Sara Bell. But, saving is hard and the poets say that living is the thing that kills us, so it’s easier to just not.
That morning Martin Landover’s street was dirty from the wind blowing garbage day trash into the curbs and over the sidewalks and through the alleyways. His apartment would have been clean if he’d tidies it up on Saturday like he usually did, instead of going out drinking with his college buddies. He double-checked his weekend Instagram game and it was flawless. It was, except that he saw her in the background of one of the shots—the one with the rum bottle and obnoxious sunglasses inside the dark club.
“The whole world,” her picture was captioned, “…confuses.”
Martin clicked back and scrolled down, digging deeper. Another read: “I don’t feel anything.” But her hair was so bright and her eyes were so bluey clear.
He saw her leaning against a concrete pillar, ankles crossed, and looking down at her phone—her unintelligible half-sleeve seeping out of her blue tank like a white-capped rapid—at the gas station where he bought cheap beer and dollar scratchers. When she looked up and they met eyes, she curled her lips, sardonic and juicy. They both felt good about recognizing the obvious sickness of indifference and apathy in the other, holding it tightly as a secret only they knew. Pictures of perfection and not a true word shared in the fresh air when the opportunity presented. It’s not an epidemic or anything, but their kind is sad.
Later, he saw her at a party of mutual friends. When they did eventually talk, their conversation percolated over agreement that they wanted to be anywhere else and that they almost didn’t come.
“Do you ever question reality?” Sara asked, nibs of cheese and crackers pouncing with the crack of the consonants.
“Why do you say things like that?” said Martin.
“I don’t know to be honest…I, uh, I just say things that make me think, like, hurt my brain kind of things, but when I spit them out they lose all of their meaning.” Her fingers toyed delicately with the silver bracelet on her slender wrist.
“I get that,” Martin said, “I’ve done that before.”
They were quiet. The party rose around them.
“Sara Bell,” he said, her name an echo.
“Yes?”
“Never mind.”
Martin Landover walked home from the party alone, pitying himself and disliking Sara even though he probably loved her; even though he probably loved himself more.
The walls fell in on him saw that Sara had met someone and they eloped and he was buying her a future.
There is no outer conflict; there is only inner confusion and turmoil. He hoped they’d divorce and only felt bad about it the first three or four times the notion passed through his mind.
Martin Landover projects a content and happy life that he, nor anyone, could ever have. That’s why the picture’s thousand words are sometimes deeper and more complex than empirical description. Sometimes pictures are careful deceptions—lies thinner than paper hearts.
albatross base 