A moonlit conversation

A (very) short story about a writer meeting his next story.

The waiter shatters a full glass on the other side of the bar, to my left an older man with a ring is flirting with a young woman. The surrounding space is full, with people, with sound and with stories. At a table in the corner of the café a story about friendship is playing out, a man being comforted by the group around him. Currently leaving the café, the story of the end of a relationship plays out, the beginning of two new lives. Maybe behind the bar the story of a young man who gets fired, only to go on and fulfill his lifelong dream. Filling these voids turns moments into stories, my lifelong dream. No, my purpose. Or my curse, depending on how you look at it.

There is nothing here. Through all the trees no forest is visible, and through the crowd neither are stories. The nothingness is suffocating. I flee the crowd, into the silent night. The night has something serene today. The full moon, the bright stars. How many times have I stared up on nights like this, searching for answers. But the moon can't talk, and the stars don't know anything. On the porch, the stories line themselves up, perhaps more so than in the café. Stories of love, betrayal, and connection. Opposite me are two men. One is talking to the other. Our eyes meet, and where they always dart away, they now linger. The talking man gets no answers from the man I was looking at. Not even a sign of acknowledgement. A few more futile attempts, and he heads back inside. A frustrated sigh and the creaking of the front door announce his departure. I only just hear the beginning of his ranting before the door slams shut.

Only the man and the moon and stars remain as my company. The man gives me another look, then gently shakes his head as he lights his next cigarette. ‘Theodor, and you?’ I introduce myself as though he had asked my name. I don’t do this. To write a story, you have to stand outside it, and look at it objectively. I see stories, I tell them. I am never part of them, not once. It would go against all natural instincts.

‘Joe.’ He doesn’t look up or around, no trace of surprise. Joe. There’s something about Joe, something I can’t put my finger on. Not yet. “What’s your story, Joe?” How rude. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he’d walked away. Or not answered, or even told me off. But some people have a story, and some stories need to be told.

A deep breath and Joe shares. Starting at the beginning. Joe was born into a family with a mother and a father. Three brothers within three years, so a family of six. Joe as the eldest. A normal childhood in a normal family in a normal village in the middle of the country. Started school at four, finished at twenty-three. A degree in economics, an office job in the same sector. Joe shouldn’t have anything to complain about, and yet he does.

Beneath the surface of “normal” lies the real story. Joe wasn’t his parent’s firstborn. Before him came a baby brother who died shortly after his birth. But is that Joe’s story, he wonders. There’s no denying that it affected him. His mother has felt guilty since Joe’s pregnancy, when instead of joy she experienced stress. Everything wrong with Joe can be traced back to that, according to her. His father has never said a word about his brother, hardly spoken his name. If Joe thinks about it too long, he can trace enough of his own problems to his brother’s death, so he prefers not to. It’s like walking a tightrope between respectfully preserving the memory and not making it his tragedy.

Joe has no tragedy, maybe he hasn’t lived long enough for that. His biggest problem? Loneliness, he admits with tears in his eyes. A stab in my heart, for a moment I don’t know what to say. Joe continues. He can point to his ex, as a bad person who deliberately isolated him. He wouldn’t be wrong, but if he’s completely honest, he was alone long before he met his ex. It made him an easy target, he supposes.

‘And the future?’ I softly inquire. ‘That was ripped out from under me like a carpet last week,’ he answers somberly. He never had a future of his own, only what was presented to him. Now he is alone, really alone, and he has no future presented to him, he explains. Joe has plenty of minor problems, he shares. Like a persistent nausea that hasn’t gone away for over a week, or some slightly autistic traits. But, he says, if some genie or fairy godmother would offer to take his loneliness at the cost of doubling the minor problems, he’d take it in a heartbeat.

I silently nod, as I’ve done for the past hour of storytelling. I don’t need to say anything, Joe knows I understand. And even if I did say something, sharing my eerily similar story wouldn’t make it any better. So we sit. In silence for a moment. Just me and Joe, two sides of the same coin. The only difference being our age. Just me and Joe, together, thus no longer alone.

Joe is the one to break the silence, saying ‘I have to head home now, but thank you. For… this.’ He promptly leaves, not giving me a chance to respond. Not like I was going to say anything. I thank him too, in my mind. Then it’s just me on the porch. Just me and the moon and the stars.

Author's Note

Hi! Just a concept/ idea I'm trying out. Let me know what you think and all tips/ advice is very welcome. Thank you in advance <3