To anyone who found their way here looking for Neil Gaiman's Calendar of Tales: I'm sorry to disappoint you. This is just a random person online taking his idea and his questions, and doing her own Calendar of Tales. You're more than welcome to stay and read my story too, if you have a few minutes to spare, though I have to warn you, I am definitely no Neil Gaiman.
Here's how this works: I asked a question. People answered the question. I used one of the answers to write a short story based on it. And then I put it up here in the off-chance someone wants to read it. And because having a public deadline is the only way I get writing done, apparently.
I want to say one thing about this one before I start. For most of December I was busy with work and The Trouble with Time, which took basically all of my writing capacity between November 26 and December 26. And after writing the epilogue for that I proceeded with actively avoiding writing this for almost four full days, because if I'm honest, this isn't what I wanted to end the year with. I'm not saying it isn't a fitting story to end 2020 with. Just not one I wanted to end it with.
But it is what it is, and eventually the deadline got too close and I had to put some words on paper (by which I mean screen) if I wanted to have anything out by the end of the month.
Anyway. I've decided to continue writing these monthly stories in 2021 also, this time with questions that aren't borrowed from Neil Gaiman. If you have any suggestions for questions, I'll be happy to hear them. I only have a couple questions decided on so far.
Now, finally, let's get to the story.
Happy New Year everyone :)
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Who would you like to see again in December?
Most anyone (Answer from Kide)
I always knew moving across the country for a job wouldn’t be easy. I knew I didn’t know anyone in town, or even at a decent distance. I knew getting to know people as an adult is somehow one of the hardest things about being one, not to mention getting to know them well enough to comfortably and without a thought call them friends. But when a literal dream job calls, you take it and figure out the rest as you go.
I’m walking through freezing rain, on my way home from work. The sun has set three hours ago and the backpack full of groceries is weighing me down, heavier with every step. The last two blocks seem to stretch out endlessly, but finally I’m at my door. My hand finds the light switch in the now-familiar spot on the left side of the door and light goes on right before the door closes behind me and shuts me in the dark of an empty apartment. I kick off my shoes and leave them by the door before walking into the kitchen, the only light streaming in through the door. I drop my backpack on the table, go back to the hall, take off my wet coat and hang it to dry, and return to the kitchen to put the groceries away.
I should call my mom, I think as I begin preparing dinner for myself. I haven’t called her all week. Or maybe it’s been almost two? It’s hard to keep track of time sometimes, with the still relatively new job taking up all space in my mind during the days, the evenings mostly following the same pattern.
The scent begins to float up from my slowly heating pan and my stomach grumbles. I had a particularly tricky job at work today, but I think I managed to do it well. So today I’m celebrating a job well done with some of my favorite food. I’m already smiling at the thought of it, even though the only thing sizzling in my pan so far is onion and garlic. More ingredients go in, the scent changes, and I’m more than ready to eat.
As my dinner gets closer to being done I switch on my laptop and send Anne a link to a video call. A few minutes later I’m sitting down with my food and she appears on the screen.
“Hey, so what are we celebrating?” I can practically hear in her voice how busy she is, but still somehow she wants to make time to chat with me at least once a week. There’s a three-year-old making his way from one end of the room to the other behind her, clutching as many toys as his tiny arms can hold.
“Me being great at my job,” I grin at the screen and start telling her of my day..
We get a full ten minutes before some disaster or another strikes her (it always does, and usually it doesn’t have anything to do with the toddler. That’s just how her life has always been), and she needs to hurry off.
“You should come visit some time,” I tell her before she goes. It’s not the first time I’ve said it. It won’t be the last. “I’ve lived here long enough that the apartment’s in order, and there’s room enough for all of you to stay for a few nights.”
“We definitely will. Soon,” she promises, and then I’m alone again.
I put on my favorite music and enjoy my marvelous dinner. For a moment I wonder about whether I should have gotten a shared apartment when I moved here, just to have someone around for longer than a few minutes on a screen. But no. Been there, done that. I know having a housemate just doesn’t suit me. I don’t want the hassle of dealing with labeled or shared foods or cleaning turns or someone making noise inside the apartment when I’m trying to sleep. I’m happy living alone, and while I know it would be nice to have company sometimes, I also know myself well enough to know sometimes is the key word there, and having someone around constantly would drive me crazy.
(Well, strictly speaking that last one is a lie, but it’s not a housemate I want around.)
I clean away my dinner dishes, but I’m too lazy to do anything about them right now, so I simply leave them on the kitchen counter to wait for a time when I’m feeling more productive.
And then the best part of the day: I curl in the corner of the couch with a blanket - I’m still cold from walking home in the chill and damp - and pick up a book. I’m not very far into this one yet, but I have a feeling it might become one of my new favorites. Or not. Realistically it’s too early to tell. What I do know is that it pulls me in stronger than most other books I find myself reading, and that alone is worth something. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the story is coherent or that the ending makes sense, but I don’t think a book can be really good unless you can’t wait to have time to continue reading. Some books manage to keep you reading, you keep turning pages until it’s way past the time you were planning on going to sleep, but once you put them down you don’t feel a particular pull to pick them up again.
Two hours later my phone beeps, its sound pulling me from the book. It’s a message in a group chat. Mike’s asking if someone else is bringing chips to the movie night they’re having in two days. I think of removing the chat from my phone. I live too far away now to take part in any socialising with them, and most of everything that’s going on in the group is not very interesting even if you’re in the same city as everyone else. For someone else the familiar chatter of messages might be comforting in a new city, but it only makes me feel lonely and like I’m missing out. Most of the people in the group aren’t people I’d necessarily choose to hang out with on my own, but not being able to go to group nights means I also won’t see the few of them I’d actually like to see. I miss them, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now. Maybe I won’t delete the group quite yet. If for no other reason, then to kind of keep in touch with the people, even if most of the messages are more of an annoyance than anything else.
I push it out of my mind and go back to my book. Well, I try to go back to my book. The floodgate of messages in the chat is now open, and they keep pouring in, making it impossible to focus on reading. I mute the group. I really, really do not right now have the energy to care about what’s going on in a different city without me. But the muting doesn’t help much. I’m distracted now. So instead of going back to the book I scroll through social media absentmindedly.
Johanna’s had a baby. Ben posted a picture that made me laugh out loud for a bit, even though I’m alone. Matilda got accepted to a school she’s wanted to go to for years but hasn’t managed to get in. Noa has moved to a town about an hour away from where I now live. I’m genuinely surprised. The last time I saw him he was determined to never move anywhere this north. I think of commenting my congratulations to Johanna and Matilda. I think of liking Ben’s post. About sending Noa a message to see if he wants to get together sometime, since he is now much closer than anyone else I know.
I don’t do any of those things. These people used to be good friends, a long time ago. But we’ve since drifted apart and I haven’t heard of most of them in years, other than seeing their posts on social media. I haven’t interacted with them in enough time that it feels weird to start again, even if it’s just to congratulate them on a baby. Even if I truly am wondering how they’re doing behind the façade people build themselves online.
I go back to my book for another blissful hour. But eventually my fingers itch for my phone again. Maybe someone has sent me a message, and I’ve simply missed it. I check. They haven’t. Of course they haven’t. No one ever does. I miss the time when we had an almost constant though slow stream of messages going back and forth with Anne, planning where to meet next and what to do two weekends from now, or whatever. But I live in a different city now. There’s no constant planning for meeting any more, because we’re not meeting every few days. I think about sending her a message anyway, but I know she’s busy. She’s always been busy, but she’s gotten even busier recently. I already talked to her today. I’ll talk to her again tomorrow.
I have a little bit more food and watch TV for a half an hour, then take my book and crawl into bed, even though it’s still a while before I’m going to sleep. I’m clearly not going to do anything other than reading anymore today, so I might just as well read comfortably in bed.
Instead I end up lying there, staring at my phone. I’m generally comfortable alone, but especially lately, when it’s been impossible to see anyone I know (my new coworkers don’t count, not yet at least. I don’t know then that well), I find myself wanting to talk with someone. I keep hoping one of the handful of people I feel like are my friends sends me a message, just to say hi, but they don’t, because of course they don’t. While staring at the phone I see Chris appear online.
I haven’t really heard from him since I moved. We’re in the same group chat or two, and it’s not like he’s silent there, but that’s about it. Even before the move almost all of our interaction was within the context of our friend group. I’ve talked to him alone a few times, mostly relating to some event coming up or about arrangements for something, but not for a while now. My thumb hovers over his icon, trying to decide if I should send him a message, just to have someone to talk to. Other people are online, of course, but of the available options for conversation partners I’d pick him, easily.
After some hesitation, I click the chat open and start typing. Delete. Type. Delete. Type. Delete. I want to talk to him, but I can’t think of anything to say. Hi or hey or hello or even a cringe-worthy good evening would get the conversation started, but then what? The conversation is bound to turn awkward almost instantly. It’s easy to talk to people when you have something specific to talk about, some reason you’re sending them a message, but when you want to chat just to chat?
I have no idea how to do that. I can never think of anything to say. At least not anything that makes any sense. There’s always small talk, but that’s almost worse than not talking at all. It’s useful when you’re meeting someone for the first or second or fifth time, because there really isn’t that much you can talk about with a stranger. But with people you know better than that the polite platitudes of small talk make me feel like I’m supposed to be talking with someone, but instead I’m slipping farther away from them with every given and received answer that tells you less than nothing.
Unable to find anything sensible to say I push the phone away and take up the book one more time. I refuse to let myself be distracted by messages that no one is sending me, and read until I’m too tired. My bed is one of the most comfortable places in the whole apartment, big and soft and warm, but tonight the usually well-loved spaciousness feels like emptiness instead.
As I drift off to sleep I find myself wishing I wasn’t quite so alone in it.
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