Week 11: Tom close shut

20 Feb

Tom closes the door behind him and is relieved. His entire being is fulfilled. Mr. “No thanks, bye” has no friends, or at least he likes to think he has none. He has nobody for his own. He loves himself, period. He doesn`t know and doesn`t care. And worst of all-he doesn`t like anyone. Keep pushing that feeling down, down, down, where it belongs. Cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum he feels sometimes, but does not know why…

Tom Close is a maths professor at the University. He spent all his young years looking, reading and searching through mathematics, exact sciences and other, precise, cold and highly practical elements of our world. Tom Close thinks he lacks art, because he works like a machine. He is right. The World is numb, his mind is un-focused on life in its artistic features. Only on what he can see and demonstrate through his perfect logic he relies and builds his beliefs. His creed: “Efficiency over Feeling”. For Tom Close, love couldn`t explain the mechanics of this day and age. He has no time for love and no lenght of reason for it. He has no expectations from others, and will accept nothing-new or old, in his life. This type of relationship with humans is the only one he knows.

Except Grace Green. She is the only one that managed to be there, always, waiting, waiting and feeling all those things that Tom could not. And will not. Grace is, somehow, his girlfriend. He doesn`t know and doesn`t care. She, on the other hand, feels and knows all. She`s a talented cello player and musician. All she cares about is marvelous, sensitive, miraculous. Even Tom. Their life is divided into two, non-equal parts. Tom lives alone, and she comes to stay a while, only for a limited period of time. She likes to think that Tom Close is not what he seems to be. He`s special. He`s hers. She`s his, that`s certain. And always will be. The women we never think about are the ones who love us most.

Tom Close. Closed. Shut. No way in, no way out. No doors and no exit. Sometimes he feels cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum. But he doesn`t know why, or how…

And it isn`t one of his turns.


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