In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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Two hours of absolute torture. That's what Gwen's delivering after the first hour elapses and her sea of constant chatter is drowning me. I'm being hit by waves of words that mean nothing.
The positive is that I've hardly had to speak. Other than confirming that I am, indeed, named Blake and that I'm thirty-six, she hasn't prodded me for any more information. Whereas I think it's possible I could map her family tree if someone gave me a sheet of paper.
How is anyone this transparent with a complete stranger?
Or maybe I've gotten too used to being in the DRC or other places like it, where most of the people I interact with coat themselves in a layer or wariness or indifference or professionalism to keep their emotions in check.
I'm hopeful that she'll somehow talk herself out in the next two hours, and the subsequent legs of our journey will be quieter. Or silent. I would love if they were silent.
The point of signing up to a 'mature' sightseeing trip through British Columbia was to avoid having to speak to anyone who was remotely close to my age. See some pretty scenery and get some sleep. That's it. My only requirements for the booking agent.
While Gwen continues to talk, I very pointedly get out my noise canceling headphones and show them to her before sticking them onto my head. The tiniest frown creases her brow, and for a moment I feel like a complete jackass.
She's attractive with her long brown hair and expressive brown eyes. It's clear she's wearing makeup, but she doesn't have so much on that I wonder what she'd look like without it.
Ten years ago, I'd have jumped on the vibe she's giving off. In Whistler, I'd have knocked on her door, offered to buy her a drink, and let nature take its course. Now I'm more discerning when I'm on leave. Careful not to get into anything that might keep me from going back overseas. Most women don't want a partner who routinely puts themselves in harm's way. Not that I blame them. When shit goes wrong, it can go really fucking wrong.
On assignment, a meaningless hookup with a nurse or another doctor or a logistics coordinator satisfies any urges. In those cases, we both know exactly what we're getting into. They don't want the commitment, and neither do I. The one time I did let a hookup go down that path, I nearly lost myself when I lost her. Not an experience I'd willingly repeat.
"Do your headphones mean you want me to stop talking?" Gwen asks.
I point to them as though I can't hear her, even though I haven't switched them on yet. The majority of people would have gotten the hint without having to ask.
She plucks one of the arms off my head. "Did you want me to stop talking?"
"Quiet would be nice," I say. In other circumstances, I might try to hide my anti-social tendencies, but if we're going to be stuck sitting together for the next two weeks, she might as well understand who she's dealing with. We won't be swapping childhood traumas and friendship bracelets. She's an open book, and I'm one that would prefer to be left on the shelf.
