Non classé, prose, short story, writing

Negatives (#1)

I stood there as I watched the tail light of his bike grow smaller and smaller in the horizon. He was gone for good, old times were gone for good, and there was nothing that could be done about it. He did not care anymore, he lost all his passion for his life, he had said. Is that enough to leave everything behind? I stood on that particular slab of the grey pavement some more, as if my feet were stuck to it, my eyes fixed to that thin and almost imperceptible horizontal line. I wonder how much we are defined by negatives, he had gone on, how much hurt we really are when our best isn’t enough. All of that seemed both close and far away to me now; the wind had brought a sort of new air. A pure breeze of emptiness, echoing something that had probably already happened inside of him long ago, something that had yet to happen inside of me. I hoped. The more I thought about it, the less I could see – there is nothing out there that is going to make it better. I hoped.
My feet were finally released from their invisible shackles, I turned around and went up across the lawn towards the house. The inside was as messy as the outside and the huge room that both served as a living and our – my – office was filled with a warm air. His things were spread all over the place : unclassified files, hockey jerseys, a bunch of books, some pictures of pretty random girls, and a scrambled piece of paper. We thought about moving recently, the old house could not serve as our – my – office anymore; but now everything was up in the air. Again. I sat at the desk and got the closest file : the case of Mrs Yamashiro, looking for her missing husband; three different witnesses put him less than fifteen miles away from his home on the same day, a bunch of question marks, a name underlined two times. The Yamashiros were not on my pile, and yet I would have to get into the thick of it. The days to come looked bleak and lonely, I felt cold and sad and abandonned. My attention was drawn to a recurring spot on the file, a pizza place, when the phone rung.
“Mr. Wilson?”
“He’s out. Quinn here.”
“Quinn? I assume you’re a detective as well, aren’t you?”
“Says so on the licence.”
“Have you sold cases yet? You sound young…”
“Look. I’m not going to spill out my whole resume. It says Quinn and Wilson on the door.”
“All right all right all right. Are you available? I need to talk business.”
“Five o’clock. Come up to the office. 434 King street.”
I hung up. There was at least one bright perspective now that he was gone, I got to be the jerk with potential clients. And as he would always say when this happened, “kid, you’d better buckle up, business is about to pick up.”


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