The Meeting in the Office on a Melacholic Winter's Day

“Mitzi,” he said “your responses are improving.”

“I am glad to hear that, Sir.” I smiled. “For I find it hard to belive unless I really was terrible last year.”

“Why, no, you have just improved. Your replies are longer and more detailed.”

“Well, good, then.” I laughed. “So, effectively, I have just become more verbose.”

“No, no, its not that, but I can see what you mean.”

“I think its my writing.” I turned, staring forelawnly out of the frosted window which looked out over the frozen rooftops of the town on this meloncholy winter afternoon.

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking perplexed as he briefly turned his head, his eyeline following, to follow mine out of the window, trying to see what I had seen, but I know for sure he did not.

“My writing is changing. I don’t know if it’s the winter or the fact that its three years…” my voice trailed off.

“Three years since what?” he asked.

“That’s of no consequence now.” I looked back towards him, away from the window. “Ms Smith said I’m half classical byronic hero destinied for literary glory and a Cambridge degree and half literary cocktease.” I burst out laughing.

“Oh.” He looked away, half embarrassed.

“Oh don’t.” I shook my head “I suppose she’s right in an apt kind of way.” My gaze returned to the window.

“What do you keep looking at?” he asked.

“What?” I asked, a little startled.

“When you look out of the window what is it you see?”

“I see winter.” I smiled.

“Well, don’t we all?”

“I don’t know, do we?”

“Yes. But what is it you see, other than winter?”

“I don’t see it.” I looked down “I don’t see what I’m looking for.”

“And what is it that you’re looking for that you don’t see?”

“God knows.” I swallowed, catching sight of myself in the glass “I’m looking for an answer.”

“To what?”

“I’m scared, I think, well, I don’t know.” I looked back to the window.

“Scared of what?” he smiled, feeling, I think, as if he thought he was about to learn some great secret about me.

“Scared that all my dreams are coming true, even the ones I didn’t want anymore, and now I am spoilt for choice.”

“And that scares you?”

“Of course.” I smiled. And he smiled too, thinking that he had uncovered that great secret he had felt he had illicted from me – as if he had won my trust. How could I tell him? How could I ever tell anyone that I was looking for some vague answer among the slate and cold and half dark? And how could I explain that was still bewitched by that winter of ambition three years ago?

Author Notes: Hello everyone! I have decided that now, I need to gain some self understanding. The easiest way for me to do that, it seems, is to write about my experiences in some vague attempt to find something I want to believe I have. All names have been changed or removed to protect privacy.

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