The countdown to 0-eight-hundred hour seems to stretch. as if in some eternal loop, like a lapsing of time and, with it, mounting, comes agonizing tension
I sit sipping the coffee Jörn made me— still steaming, too hot to drink. And with the binoculars fixed to me, I peer out through the trees from the safe screen of the hide watching the stillness of the back of the barn house.
The sun has long made its presence in the sky —but nothing seems to be happening; no movement anywhere that I can see —not within or without
.... and the excruciating minutes that barely move each time I glance down at my phone to check the time
I’m no good at this sort of thing. I don’t do anxiety at all well
and each time I get up to pace, I feel sick and just go back to the spot on the floor where I’ve found it is the best vantage point to see what is going on; best spot, low to the floor for the angle it provides and I am there half-sat but with legs and feet ready to spring
the waiting is so maddening
and as I have no experience with ambushes —or war tactics .... I have no idea what to expect —and feel uncomfortably ready to vomit ....and just hope Jörn knows what he’s doing ....
and ....feel myself filled with fears and worry ....
only now .... does it strike me that this is the first time I am really confronted with the thought of.... what if something happened to him?
what if something happens to him....
and how did I seem always to never have had to actually consider this.... ?
always before there was .... the excuse ....the screen of his spy world mystery; the mystery of knowing what he was up to.... and safe in not knowing ....and then, of course —the times too busy being angry at him. the excuse....
guarding emotions
but what would I do....?
In that suspension of time that takes forever as I wait.... these sudden thoughts consume me....
And remember —was it almost a year ago now—?— there was the time I saw him hang from the helicopter —but it seemed surreal through the surveillance monitors ....like watching some special effects action film
And so....
.... it makes me wonder about him —now as I sit there....
and think about what he said in the truck —that things “usually” go as planned....
.... and.... it makes me wonder things.... and wonder too, like— if he’s ever been shot
His mystery —and his scars ....I never have asked him as they seem as subjects closed —as is the poker face he keeps and.... as unknown territory like so many other things about him. Things I wish I could know. wish he would say.... so many things behind that beautiful mask he wears.... of what lays behind....
so the thought grips me now as the nausea sweeps like a wave over me —what if he’s shot.... ?
—or worse .... or else, what if he’s horribly —maimed?
....and alone with my thoughts as I am ....here in my hide ....
for the first time confess to myself things I never have allowed myself
....like
those things I never told him. those things.... and not wanting to, my eyes blur and I find myself whispering things ....
whispering promises....to some silent ....beyond ....
and feel myself seem to step out of myself, as if watching from outside of myself, like I have so often watched in dreams .... watching the shore, waiting .... watching the sun in the sky and .... with it that feeling of ....dread ....
and again think. things I never told him. never got to say. things I never even said out loud to myself —as if by not—that made it safe. safer.... and yet knowing it wouldn’t matter, I’d still —feel— this. even if the worst occurred....
killed or ....maimed.... but, I know with all that my soul does know about life. about meaning. about existence that.... that even if maimed ....or even death— that it wouldn’t change anything ....of what I feel; it would survive....even life times
but I suppose it was wrong to suppose that he ever would ....that to him—it would be this way; that he would—could.... no, I was wrong to believe he might
but now gripped with this feeling of dread I reproach myself.... should I ....have said? and now, possibly too late—it ....was pride making me pretend that I don’t care .... pretending I don’t care .... that much. but —does he? maybe not and maybe it’s better not to say unless he does care about me, then the moment lost
No. I don’t know.... and....
why would I matter to him? to him ....I am irrelevant; easily forgotten ....more interested in his espionage, and then, there is his opera, when he gets a free moment
....he has no time for anything else—he’s a spy—a hacker, like he told me—all he cares about are his spy games, his capers, cracking his safes and codes. And I am i anything more to him than just a code to him? no, I am nothing to him—anyway —and now that game is up, isn’t it? .... I’m nothing, nobody ....now —and no, I could not imagine he would ever consider giving his heart ....and to me....? never, I know better and I should never expect he would. of course I know. who am I anyway.... just a curiosity .... a passing curiosity
and now as I wonder, staring through the lenses focused at the landscape with a sinking faith....
and I wonder ....maybe
....he must have been hurt long ago.... found other means to fill what replaces the need of such things.... of course, I’m nobody, nothing to him....
but still....
what if he should be shot ....?!
what if....? because, I’d regret it....I know.... even still. even ....if he does not.... I mean, if I never had the chance to....
And watching the lawn, waiting tensely, my thoughts keep wandering into these places I’ve avoided wandering into; wondering all these things I never let myself before .... how many loves has he known? but then, what opportunities has he had to really find someone who was actually capable to know what is hidden within his soul.... so busy spying ....undercover; traveling around the globe; new philharmonic symphonies, playing concerts; consumed in his opera ....that no one but he knows what it means
—and so, I wonder—did anyone really ever come close to seeing past the façade? in his alienated world of spies and shallow concert hall acquaintances —was there really ever an opportunity for the chance for him to stumble upon someone capable of decoding him? —anyone either deep or clever enough to know there was even something buried there?
and ....as this new turn of anguish and self-deprecating torment takes hold of me—I suddenly jump at something I see—there!!—moving in the trees!
I adjust the lens to sharpen the sight—yes! My heart lunges before it pounds like drums in my head as I see, like apparitions move! —the first shadow of change —from the woods—they are there! like an invasion of a small army!—all dressed fully in black! I have to force myself to catch my breath, feeling my pulse become erratic before it rushes too fast, sweeping that strange amphetamine wave over me....
as I watch them start to crawl slowly through the trees, and move across the lawn, holding their weapons ready; like spider legs, closing in; surrounding in a circle towards the barn house....
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