Emergency Wishes

By Tea

The sole resident of the time observatory kept a jar full of eyelashes on his desk. The label, written in precise, square letters, read: "Emergency Wishes". A miniscule note, barely noticeable, was attached to each eyelash, marking the date and place of its collection, as well as the name of the original owner. With the exception of one eyelash stored for sentimental reasons, the man never took in a used eyelash.

Beside the jar lay a magnifying glass, a tiny pair of tweezers, and a sterile rubber glove. Order was maintained unfailingly, even during the most difficult of times. A cluttered house, he'd often quote, attests to a cluttered mind. The lashes were piled up carefully in the glass jar, a monument to meticulousness. He could recall only one incident in which he had actually used one of them. Even then, he did so calmly, deftly balancing the eyelash on the tip of his finger before carefully blowing upon it.

He had an affinity for classification. Admittedly, if he hadn't, it was unlikely that he'd ever be able to find anything. He owned a list in which every day was meticulously cataloged, divided into good days and bad days. Tuesdays, he once noted, tended to go better than Sundays. He made many such footnotes, documented systematically in his blocky script at the bottom of the pages.
It may seem ludicrous, writing comments for each day anyone had ever lived. After all, the task of reading them all may very well consume as many days as were documented. Time, however, did not concern him. He'd already spent one eternity observing all of those days. Some of them were quite dull, and yet he kept at it, diligently.

Naturally, different days would hold varying levels of his interest. The man in the time observatory was mostly interested in love. In his small notebook he recorded the names of his favorite romances, so that he could re-watch them, over and over again. He'd skim through the chapters of others' lives, gazing at them through one of his elongated telescopes, seeking the moments, large and small, that composed the emotional amalgam of their worlds. There were loves which wrecked his nerves and excited him even during his tenth viewing of them, even knowing how they would end; others left him in tears every single time upon reaching their eventual demise, a pair of emotions, burning fiercely until the lives that shared them eventually faded away. He found that if he looked long enough, he'd discover some hidden smile he'd missed during the previous viewing, or a soft, murmured whisper, which eluded him during a moment of excitement. These hidden gems were his most cherished possessions, and he was always overwhelmed with joy upon finding one.

There was one particular love that fascinated him beyond all others. He knew that as a general rule-of-thumb, first loves tended to end. In most cases their owners would move on with their lives, find adult relationships, and remember the past through a fog of pleasant nostalgia. Other times, when the heartbreak was too great to bear, one of the lovers – the one left behind – might even take their own life. These things happened. Usually, as he once established empirically, on Thursdays.

Often, when one lover continued on living, the emotion still burning in their gut, several years would pass before they would finally heal and find solace in the arms of someone new, sometimes, accepting that they would never love the same way again. Those loves were his absolute favorites.

It was a rare case such as this which now held his attention. Even rarer than the others. The man in the time observatory found himself revisiting it, over and over again, lips parted in wonder, observing one man in a tiny, remote country, whose heart was broken, and was refusing to move on.

He'd watched the first act thousands of times. He watched them as they fell in love. He examined the relationship itself over and over again, thousands of time. He returned to the final stretch of the relationship, as well, more than once. There was only one moment he refused to revisit. The breakup.

The man who would not move on was once called Maor Eckstein (though, it had been a long while since the man in the time observatory had thought of him by that name), and his life – even if he didn't know it himself – was an arrow in flight, the target of which was a woman who went by the name of Inbal Al-Kumisi. The man in the time observatory no longer lingered on this particular life trajectory, though he used to draw a great deal of amusement from observing the passage and hierarchy of moments; the days which, if properly aligned, would be indistinguishable from one another: a long line of negligible variations leading up to the day they met, and, ultimately, to the day she left.

It seemed that every step Maor took led him closer to love. A religious boy, slender and withdrawn, with clever eyes that took in too much for his own good, he eventually blossomed into a handsome man. His eyes were forest green, his hair coal black, and his skin pale. He had been a lonely child, unable to find anyone sharp enough to keep up with the swiftness of his mind. It was his fascination with numbers that drove him to study mathematics at Bar-Ilan University – not for any particular affection for them, but rather due to the fact that numbers, unlike humans, did not bear any resentment towards the people who managed to figure them out.

During his Bachelor's degree he discovered that he had a knack for the field, more so than the other students in his class. Being inherently modest, he attributed his success to diligence rather than to natural aptitude. During his Master's, it became apparent to his professors that they were dealing with a prodigy – an exceptionally brilliant mathematician, even among other brilliant mathematicians. By the time he'd completed his PhD, Maor realized this as well. He was offered dozens of positions, awarded dozens of grants, but felt lonelier than he'd ever remembered being.

The man in the observatory found the entire ordeal quite tedious. A sequence of steps which couldn't have transpired any other way. The life of a mathematician, he mused, were constructed in a geometric progression – plotted like a linear function. Given the first step, calculating the last was entirely achievable.

In contrast, the path of the woman he was destined to fall in love with was truly fascinating. It was as if she had been dancing through life in long, unpredictable, graceful steps. Looking through the telescope, the man in the time observatory was constantly forced to adjust his lens so as not to lose track of Inbal Al-Kumisi. One moment she’s 15, a pretty girl, her skin the most exquisite mahogany, her eyes brown, narrow and catlike, her hair raven-black, smooth and unbound. She is smiling through heart-shaped lips, learning that she is being courted, discovering the pleasures of flesh and touch. Her bare legs drew the attention of her peers, and Inbal did not shy away from their gaze. She enjoyed feeling their eyes glide over her body, the excitement she could stir up with a simple smile. She had only just begun to bloom, and already was the object of desire for men ten years, or more, her senior.

And here she is at 19, trading in the mini-skirts for tight pants. Scrutinizing a guitar she's learning to play, ignoring the looks of adoration from the young man teaching her. She's grown tired of fake smiles. Boredom has substituted pleasure. In need of a new challenge, she gazes at the guitar as she would at a lover. Suddenly it’s a year later and she’s already mastered the piano, the drums and the saxophone. Upon a closer look, the man in the observatory could see that each instrument was taught by a different man, each of whom she had replaced in turn.

The man in the time observatory saw nothing wrong with this. Occasionally he'd observe some of these short-term lovers after she’d broken up with them. For many, she was the one who got away. For others, a briefly enjoyed prize. It seemed that, certain rare cases aside, she hadn't felt any particular remorse upon moving on with her life. Apart, perhaps, from the regret felt over inflicting pain on another.

He once found, upon inspection, that Inbal had broken no less than thirty-one hearts, not counting those who'd managed to recover in under a year – though there were several borderline cases. Now that he'd thought about it, he mentally corrected the tally to thirty-two.

At 21 she began composing and was awarded a scholarship at a conservatorium. At 22, one of the transient men in her life tells her of a connection between mathematics and music. Her eyes flash at the notion and she raises an inquisitive eyebrow, wishing to hear more. And here she is three years later, back to a blue miniskirt complementing her dark hues, her tanned legs glistening in the sun as she graduates summa cum laude with her Bachelor's degree in mathematics.

At this point, the man in the time observatory likes to increase the resolution, so that the seconds tick by ever so slowly. Marked with the utmost accuracy in his notebook is the exact second in the exact minute in time in which Inbal Al-Kumisi's gaze settled upon Maor Eckstein's face. A face shrouded in absentmindedness. He's looking to the other side of the garden in which the graduation ceremony is held, staring pensively into space. As part of the faculty, Maor is required to attend the ceremony, despite his best efforts. He is not looking at Inbal.

An astonished smile spreads across her face. She keeps staring at this beautiful, doleful man, the only one by whom she’d gone entirely unnoticed as she walked to her spot along with the rest of the graduates. It isn't until the ceremony is over, at the sound of cheers and hoots from the graduates, that he disengages from his meditations for long enough to look around. For a fleeting moment, his green eyes meet her brown ones.

"Who's that?" she asks a fellow student. The man in the time observatory follows the movement of her lips, transcribing her words in his notebook.

"That's Doctor Eckstein. He’s supposed to be a brilliant mathematician, but a terrible professor. No one ever knows what he's talking about."

"What's his first name?"

"Maor. I think he only teaches MA courses."

Inbal nods. After the ceremony she approaches Maor without a moment's hesitation. He doesn't spot her until she's practically in his face, to which he responds by blinking.

"Maor? Hi, I'm Inbal," she says, and her eyebrows arch as she smiles. She reaches out her hand.

Maor shakes it hurriedly and smiles back halfheartedly. "Hi, Hello. Student?"

"Just finished my Bachelor's. But I'm starting my Master's here next semester."

"Yes. Yeah, that makes sense. We were just in the ceremony. Yeah." He goes silent, his mouth still moving for a superfluous second. "Yes. You had a question about the Master's degree?"

"No. I wanted to ask if you're available for a drink."

"Okay," he replies cautiously. "When will you be asking? In a few years, perhaps?"

She laughs, her face like that of a child in play. It takes her a moment to realize that he's serious. "Are you available to have a drink with me sometime?"

"Yes, very much. That is to say, I’d like that very much. Actually, very much available, too. But I can't date a student. Sorry," he says. His face turns a deep red when he refuses her. "Good luck with your studies. Perhaps when you graduate?"

The shock brings her to automatically thank him before she manages to regain her composure. He nods awkwardly, turns around, and walks away gingerly, as if not completely trusting his knees to hold him upright, leaving Inbal behind.

Idiot, mutters the man in the time observatory, and heaves a sigh. Such an idiot. He sets the image to several months later. Inbal is studying for her Master's. She is extremely dedicated to her studies. And in every class Maor Eckstein teaches, you will find her as well. One of his only female students.

He says nothing the first time she enters his class. She's wearing a miniskirt and a tight blouse, he a buttoned-down white shirt and brown slacks. They exchange only a short glance, enough to clarify that he remembers her. She turns slightly red, her gaze becoming determined.                                                                                                        

During the first few lectures she never raises her hand, merely writing down his explanations in small, neat cursive. The fifth lesson is when she starts asking questions. Each one is posed in a polite, formal tone, as her eyes attempt to bore holes through his head. Her questions are difficult, complex. The other students resent her for the exhaustive, elaborate answers they require. But Maor, instead or realizing she's trying to catch him off guard, is filled with enthusiasm. His lectures, once dull as ditchwater, gain a newfound air of excitement. His passion for numbers in suddenly evident to anyone with seeing eyes, and in each lesson Inbal burrows further into his words, forcing him into a dialogue. With time, the indignation harboring in her eyes since his refusal is replaced with avid curiosity.

The man in the time observatory skims through all of this quickly, hastily clicking on a button which skips between their brief encounters. Due not to disinterest, but to eagerness. He reaches Inbal's MA graduation ceremony, the day she approached Maor again. This time he looked at her throughout the entire ceremony, smiling. She returned his look with a morbidly serious one, her expression sealed.

"Maor, I have another question," she says as she approaches him.

"You always have questions," he says, and then, carefully, "is it about math?"

"No."

Hope fills his eyes. "Does that… I mean, do you… drinks? I'm not asking. I mean, I'm asking if you are. Though in fact, due to commutative law, that means I'm asking."

"Are you asking for right now, or shall I finish my PhD first?" she replies. Their eyes lock, brown on green. Maor is the first to blink.

The man in the time observatory takes his time going over the next three years. The simple act of watching the whole thing takes him six years. He lingers on each moment longer, much longer than necessary, freezing one occasionally to enjoy a particularly favored image. He spends three days observing their first date, in which Maor had failed to utter a single word until she'd managed to calm him with math questions, as if they were alone in class. He would still go speechless whenever she touched him. She couldn't get enough of it – she, who couldn’t remember the last time she was interested in a man who became excited at her touch. At the end of the date Maor's expression suddenly freezes. He is completely still. The man in the observatory laughs when he realizes that it  isn’t  the image that’s frozen, but the man. After a long while, in which the only sign of life in Maor's face is the blush still spreading across it, he manages to extend his hand forward to politely shake hers. She grabs him and pulls him to her, pressing his body to hers. Her heart shaped lips press against his, pulling on them adamantly, encouragingly.

He is surprisingly quick in learning to kiss back, noted the man in the observatory, nodding in approval. And he was one to know, having already witnessed millions of first kisses. This one must have easily ranked among the top thousand. Maybe even the top one-hundred. He moves on. First dates, first heart-to-hearts, first time in bed – he snickers at Maor's initial insecurity, his awkwardness; smiles at Inbal's eager eyes. She has never expressed even the slightest disappointment with his inexperience, perhaps as she herself had more than enough for the both of them. Meeting her parents, who grimaced at his clearly Ashkenazi heritage. Meeting his parents, who struggled to avoid commenting on the length of her skirts and the color of her skin. All of the routine bumps and potholes in the path of a new couple. The days spent in bed, the time spent in cafés, in conversation, apartment-hunting, future-planning. All of the highs and lows of love.

The man in the observatory sighed and leaned back away from the eyepiece. Such is love, he muses. Like a forest, or a mountain range. As long as you stand near it, you can never know how far it truly extends, how massive its scope. Only from the perspective of time can its true magnitude be comprehended. And even then, you'd need a suitable telescope.

He wanders around the observatory, absentmindedly arranging some papers. Maybe he'll eat something. It's been many years since he'd eaten. He hadn't the need for it. For a moment he debates sleeping. But no, no, there are many more loves to observe, numerous moments he'd missed. He once calculated and found that with each of his blinks, he risked missing a fraction of a loving glance, a fleeting facial expression that could slip right through his fingers. Multiply this by approximately sixteen blinks per second and you'll reach twenty-three thousand and forty blinks per day. He could hardly bare the waste of it.

He peeks at the eyepiece. It is still aimed at Maor and Inbal's love. Old light of time long past. That was the interesting part, he thought. It's all downhill from here. And eventually… he shakes his head. No, its better he doesn't watch. Maybe he'll have something to eat after all.

And yet, he returns to the chair. With fastidiousness he is unable to rid himself of, he seeks out the exact moment in which it had originated, but despite his best efforts he cannot locate it. Maybe there never was a single, key moment… but he refuses to accept this. There is, for everything, a cause and an effect. An act leading to an occurrence.

But he finds only the effects. Inbal's interest in mathematics wanes after four years of research. She is extremely talented, as brilliant as Maor if not more so. But she's never forgotten her love for music, and would still compose, on occasion. Some of her work gains an audience online, and it rekindles her interest in the field. She leaves mathematics, refocuses on music, and thrives in it. As for Maor, he finds himself submerging ever deeper into his thoughts. He notices that they no longer hold her interest as they once did, and with typical reticence decides not to bother her with his explanations.

She makes a conscious effort to express interest, but he replies laconically, wishes not to nuisance her. His answers are dull, and she no longer attempts to get him to talk about it, perhaps assuming he doesn't want to bring his work home. Or maybe, she thinks, he's grown tired of always explaining everything to her. As for her, she doesn't know what to tell him about her work. He smiles approvingly at her compositions, never criticizes. She once tried to explain to him the connection between mathematics and music, but it’s never more than a passing amusement for him. 

They are growing apart. The man in the time observatory devotes ten years in scrutiny of a single one. He follows both of their day to day lives through dozens of viewpoints. Maor doesn’t know what to say when they talk. He tries to limit his questions to the day she's having, wishing not to burden her with a subject he believes she no longer cares about. Inbal travels the globe, gets invited to theaters and concerts. She invites him to join her, but he doesn't want to intrude. Secretly, he is disappointed. He cannot understand how she could have abandoned their research for such a frivolous pursuit.

When does she begin flirting again? Wonders the man in the observatory. She was always sought after, always showered with compliments, even from men who knew she was in a relationship. She'd absorb them like a sponge. Even her most civil smile of gratitude could draw a kind word from a complete stranger. But there she was, finding conversational partners in other countries. Stemming at first from a common interest, then from loneliness.
It is odd, ponders the man in the time observatory, that Maor does nothing to stop her. Never says a word to disturb the solitude that has encompassed them both, never attempts to break through the barrier that silence had erected between them. Stored inside the everyday silences are looks of longing which he dares not shoot her way. The lackluster topics of conversation he manages to bring up obscure the words he wishes he could say to her. The place he’d held in her heart for so long slowly diminishes, invaded by others, colleagues at first, then close friends. Those who are able to fulfill her stifled need for intimacy.

She remains devoted for a long time. The man in the time observatory notes this, sadly. She tries, so hard, not to look at others. When she finally leaves, she does so hesitantly, apprehensively, believing that his feelings for her are long dead. Hoping against all hope that he'll say something to stop her. But this silent, taciturn man does not even understand that there are words to be said. He thinks the battle is long lost. Her eyes are brimming and he is silent, the fool.

Only when the tears start to fall from her eyes does he manage to reach out and gently brush his hand against her cheek. Inbal cannot see his face through the veil. Maybe if she could have, thinks the man in the time observatory, she would have stayed. Because, for the briefest of moments – about two and a half blinks in duration, he quickly calculates – Maor is wearing the loving expression he had been hiding behind the wall of silence. But by the time she wipes away her tears, his face is masked again. He quickly pulls his hand away, as if he'd been burnt.

The man in the time observatory tears himself away from the eyepiece, refusing to watch the rest. The frozen moment it is aimed at captures the image of Maor's hand, wet from Inbal's tears. A particularly watchful observer – which he was – could spot a single eyelash on one of his fingers. It must've been trapped there accidentally, washed away and then seemingly rescued by the soft touch of his skin.

The man in the time observatory is no longer looking through the telescope, but his memory is not as obedient as his instrument. The moment continues unfolding. He watches her leave, her look imploring him, one last time, to tell her to stay. He remains silent and still. But only in memory. Here, in the eternal present he lives in, his eyes are wet as well. And the sound of the door, softly clicking shut behind her, booms in his ears even through the weight of eternity.
In his memory he stares, dazed, at his wet hand, noticing the eyelash stuck to it. He looks back at the door.

#

Once again he cannot seem to fathom how it ended. He has since observed every love that ever was and ever will be, and still he could not understand. What could he be missing, wonders the man in the time observatory, recalling momentarily that his name is Maor, wiping away the tears from his eyes. His hands deftly reset the instruments to the beginning of his relationship with Inbal. Eternity was at his disposal. Maybe tomorrow he'll understand. And when he does, he'll have a jar full of wishes, waiting for each and every moment he might have to fix.

-----------------------------

Story is taken from the book "On Love and Other Fables" by Tea.

Available on Amazon at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06WLKYHTY

As well as being available for order at your local bookshop.

Thank you for reading,
Tea.

@@life_without_limits,  the reason I wanted you toto read this is the man observing the loves from the Observatory...