The Journal
By ChicagoTunnelKid

The pen scratched across the paper, the only sound in the chamber save a sputtering candle. Vincent had learned as a child how to keep his left hand from blurring the ink. Being left-handed had its challenges. Being Vincent had its challenges also.

This journal was nearly filled. Some journals lasted longer than others; this journal did not cover a long time period. Since Catherine came into his existence, journals didn’t seem to last as long.

Tonight was a case in point. Catherine had come Below for a music date. They listened in the Music Chamber to the Mozart program played in the band shell in the park. She had dressed up, as she always did, and looked so beautiful in the deep navy color. He helped her sit down on the rugs, and as he sat next to her, she leaned against him. Still not comfortable, she lifted his right arm and snuggled under it as he wrapped it around her.

Oh, how that felt! So many sensations! Sight, sound, smell, touch. All were sending him information to savor. When he tilted his head to lay it atop hers, he smelled her shampoo, felt the fine softness of her hair. His arm around her shoulders felt both her slight size and her strength. Her voice as she pointed out passages of music and revealed her knowledge of Mozart was music itself to his ears. His eyes delighted in the loveliness of the dress, particularly as it set off the swell of her breasts, dark color against light skin. He drank everything in like a man parched for loveliness.

At the end, they walked slowly back to her basement entrance. They talked of the satisfaction of an evening spent together. Catherine mentioned a date when Mahler would be played. He readily agreed to meet her. She had looked at him, smiling. “It’s a date!” she’d said. She leaned in and kissed him on his cheek. Too surprised to do anything, he had stood there like a post.

But, pen in hand, he could relive the evening. He could do and say everything he wished he had done and said. He could admit to himself how much being with her meant to him, and what it did to him. And he could pen his dreams, which all involved her.

The candle sputtered as it neared its end. The pipes would call breakfast soon.  He had but a moment more for one more line that he needed to see written in black and white:

I’m in love with Catherine.