May 24, 2010

'Forty-one,' thought Blair, gazing at the man in the mirror as though, if he stared really hard, that lookingglass version of himself could hear the thoughts; as though, if he stared hard enough, that other Blair's thoughts would seep into his own consciousness, maybe pass along some sorely needed wisdom.

But all that happened was that the left-handed Blair just stared back, those eyes revealing a soul just as lost as his own.

Blair had deflected the teasing at the station all week:

"Forty-one, huh? Time for your mid-life crisis. Going to get yourself a hot car? a hot girl? Heh-heh"

Forty-one.

At thirty-one, he'd become Jim's 'permanent, official partner.' Begun a second life. Death to the old, long live the new. And he partnered well: watched his back; stood by his side.

But now he wondered how the days had slid, the one into the other, so that one year had become ten in that flick of an eyelash.

How had the hair that he'd refused to cut shrunk away from his gaze, how had it suddenly thinned, lost color, changed texture? How had that smooth, boyish face turned suddenly wide, crinkled; when had he begun to grow that second chin? When had his chest begun its rounding, his waist its thickening?

He had been attractive once; was he still? Would anyone be interested anymore, now that he'd allowed himself to drift into middle age?

He had been intellectually restless once; where did that go? Would curiosity return? Would there be any reason to ask it to stay?

He once felt as though his life had purpose; did he still? Would his purpose, his direction, change now?

Was it time for his third life? Was it time to enter into it as a child, with new toys, new loves?

His old life, his second life, was a life lived outwardly; would his new life, this third life, be an inward turning?

These were the questions he tried to stare into the eyes of the left-handed Blair in the mirror, but the eyes, like black holes, simply swallowed them up, leaving him empty, hungry.

"Forty-one," he heard from the hallway, and then another face looked back at him; a knowing face, a sorrowful face.

"Yeah"

And a hand came up and rested soothingly on the back of his neck. A capable, sensitive hand. An older hand, roughened, toughened by more years than forty-one.

He reached up and back, gently pulling the hand down into his own, and squeezed it gently, smoothing the lines on the knuckles, massaging the muscles.

He looked back at the mirror and saw those eyes, still sky blue, but now a bit watery, a bit reddened around the edges.

He gazed intently at this man in the mirror, as though if he looked hard enough, he might find his answers.

"I don't have any answers for you, Chief."

"Ah, but you do," he said, smiling, because that was the answer; the only possible answer he could get from without.

He looked up at the left-handed Jim and wondered how Jim had gotten through this a few years before. Wondered at the internal strength of a man who could go through this so quietly, so stoically, so bravely. Wondered what the magic trick was, the incantation, the charm, the ritual, the talisman; what did Jim have that got him through all this -- all this doubt, this loss of self, of direction.

And then this man in the mirror, this left-handed Jim, suddenly spoke:

"It wasn't easy, but I was lucky: I had you."