a shade of quiet

by Jonathan Daniel Gardner

We sat on one of those molded plastic benches in the quiet wing. I kept shifting, trying to find an area of the seat that didn’t feel punitive. The air smelled like citrus cleaner. Every few minutes the ceiling speakers released a single chime. It made me look up, like someone had entered the room.

“I keep meaning to start meditating,” I said.

“What’s stopping you?” she asked.

A courier cart rolled by us, stacked with paper cups and tiny bottled waters. The wheels squeaked in a way that made the hallway feel even longer.

“I just like the uneasy truce I have with my traumas.”

“I think you overintellectualize your feelings.”

“Yeah, but it’s nice to have a genre.”

“What genre’s that?”

“That was a joke. A depression joke.”

“Are you depressed again?”

“You see, no. The problem is that I’m not depressed.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I’m not. It makes noticing the malaise easier,” I said. “I feel like I’m being interviewed. How’s your Greta?”

A distant ventilation fan kicked on like a deep breath let go. I rubbed my thumb along the seam of the bench.

“I think she confuses being busy with being alive,” she said.

“Still skiing a lot?”

“Yeah, she could have been a pro.”

“What, she couldn’t bully hard enough for that?” I asked.

She lifted her arm to nudge me, but the tethers made it more gesture than action. I leaned closer, completing the nudge for her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I get it. She comes from money.”

A soft rattle echoed through the empty corridor. We both glanced down the wing, but nothing moved.

“I wish I was ‘my parents made a donation’ rich,” I said.

“You think you’d be good at it?” she asked.

“Being rich?” I said. “Fuck, yes. I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to call me ‘sport.’”

“I don’t think I’d be good,” she said. “My dad was bad at affairs, and I don’t even like shrimp cocktail.”

I let myself drift forward a little.

“This should be her,” I said.

“Well, she’s dead set on perpetuating her relationship with misery.”

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Are you? You look tired.”

“No, not tired,” I said. “I’m just older than I thought I’d be.”

She laughed, and the overhead lights flickered in time with it.

“I’ve always been bad in a crisis,” I said. “I say the wrong thing—”

She grabbed my hand like a child fearing the dark. I let her hold it, trying not to grip back too tightly.

“Just talk,” she said. “Tell me something.”

“I give advice now,” I said. “Someone asked me the other day, and I started my usual spiel about not knowing anything, but then I thought, I’m forty goddamn years old, I ought to know something worth saying.”

“You’ve got it figured out?”

“No, of course not. But I do give advice as of the other day.”

She closed her eyes. A kiosk three storefronts down lit up in a slow ripple. I watched the screens wake up, pretending it meant something.

“This really is the worst mall,” I said.

She smiled. “I think I’m going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Do you want me to stay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said instantly. “Tell me about your night.”

I adjusted on the bench, ready to perform.

“I was on the G,” I said. “After midnight and alone. Greenpoint to Bergen, so it wasn’t quick.”

A child’s helium balloon floated by untethered. We watched it rise toward a vent where it hesitated.

“Then a tall thin guy wearing all black got on at Lorimer and sat across from me. He was putting on goth makeup using his phone camera and started sobbing. It went on for a while, so I closed my eyes to give him some privacy. I was wildly uncomfortable.”

She smiled without opening her eyes, a real smile.

I reached for her hand and gripped it hard.

“We still need to work out a signal it’s you,” I said.

“It will be,” she said.

I stayed like that until it shifted from night to whatever was next. Lights warming one section at a time, monitors keeping time with beeps, the chime turning into a melody meant for crowds that hadn’t arrived yet.

Morning came like a consequence.

Photo of Jonathan Daniel Gardner

BIO: Jonathan Daniel Gardner is originally from Asheville, North Carolina, and currently lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared in Change Seven Magazine, with pieces forthcoming in Maudlin House, Avalon Literature and Arts Magazine, and Beyond Words. He holds a degree in Creative Writing from The New School and works at a cocktail bar.