Three Vignettes:

The Singer

Today, I watched someone I loved pretend he didn’t know me. He stood center stage above me, singing to the heavens, to an audience of birds and clouds. He sang to the walls made of barrels filled with pinot noirs and cabernets aging along with the rest of us in time with the music he made. He sang to the strangers he did not know. But he would not sing to me. And we were everything to each other once. I dared him to look at me, my eyes begging at first, following his with hurt, then moving toward anger, at a speed and trajectory so familiar a pattern between us that it hurts to blink.

The Statue

I have been running my whole life. Running toward something more or less, toward a new beginning, with a pull so alluring, so assuring, so strong none could escape it. I would feel this urge in every fiber of my body, the call to break free. From what? From the past? The endings of other beginnings? Looking for what? Would I recognize it if I saw it? I’ve run so far, so fast, so often, I’ve forgotten where this running started. But we all know the saying, “wherever you go, there you are.” And so here I am again. Tired, so very tired of running. Breath leaves me. So I sit in the park, inviting the sun to warm my skin. I close my eyes, hearing the cooing of pigeons at my feet, the merriment of children off in the distance. Over the years, I’ve developed a fondness for this place. You may find me here in this very spot if you are not in a hurry. Yourself running. I am the woman they whisper about. Rumor has it, they say, she simply sat down and turned to stone.

The Human

I don’t fit in here. Everyone at this party is so important. The women are elegantly dressed in silks and linens, perfumed and statuesque, figures sculpted and polished like precious stones, worn on the arms of powerful men who move through the crowd like hunters on expedition. The women laugh freely. The men speak loudly. I feel small. Inadequate. Twice now, I’ve been brushed aside in their carelessness. I am struck by the ease with which the wealthy dismiss others. I want to go home. Get into my sweatpants and just chill out. But I can’t leave. I am the reason all these people are here. They don’t know that yet. But in 45 minutes, I will be up on that dais. I doubt any of these bigwigs will recognize me from the crowd anyway. My picture wasn’t included in the evening’s program, only my company’s name. The Board decided to announce me as a surprise. Ugh. I hate this. I am not here for their amusement. I am not anyone’s plaything. I am a thinking, feeling, independent being, and if they cared, actually cared about their fellow humans, they wouldn’t need to invent replacements. An ultrahuman, they call me. But I guess it’s too late for that. Well, I have news for them. In 45 minutes, they will get what they paid for and then some.