Rad sat back, a small sigh escaping his lips. “When Ana died, it was like a rupture. You know those scenes in the movies where something tears through an airplane and everything gets sucked through the void? Well, that’s what it felt like, only I was the plane, trying to keep my insides from spilling out. I know it sounds weird.”
My hand, resting under the table, reached for my rubber band. I knew Ana would come up in our conversation. It was inevitable since there was so much of her in the book. I had been steeling myself for this moment, and I gave myself a couple of sharp tweaks.
“Not at all.” He had just described exactly how it felt for me, the perfect analogy. But, of course, I couldn’t tell him that. Not without revealing my lie. It was something I had pushed so far down that I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Not even Ida.
“Grief is such a potent thing,” he continued. “That’s what I’ve learned. It’s like a hot iron; you can barely stand to hold it. But you don’t have a choice. The only way you can set it down, even if it’s temporary, is to refocus the energy elsewhere. I’ve only been able to do that through writing.”
“It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.”
“That reminds me of a story. A fairy tale, actually. It’s about this king who has three daughters. He was trying to work out whom he should leave his kingdom to, so he rounded them up and asked them to describe their love for him. The first daughter said she loved him like the way she loved her most precious jewels. The second described how much she loved him by referencing her most beautiful dresses. The third likened her love to salt, which pissed off the king because in comparison to fancy dresses and diamonds, salt is kind of underwhelming. So he sent her away. I don’t really remember what happens next, but I think somehow she begins working for a neighboring kingdom, catches the eye of the prince, and, then, as luck would have it, ends up marrying him. One day, she hosts a royal banquet, and her father is the guest of honor. She instructs the cooks not to use any salt in their cooking. So the king is sitting at the dinner table. He doesn’t recognize his own daughter because, well, it’s a fairy tale.”
I laughed.
“He takes a bite of his meal and spits it out,” Rad continued. “Then he says he would rather die than eat another bite of food that isn’t seasoned with salt. Of course, the princess reveals her true identity, and the king realizes the point she was trying to make before he threw her to the wolves.”
“I like that story,” I said.
“I knew you would.”
“I suppose salt has a negative rap, like sadness. We’re always told to watch our sodium intake or smile.”
He grinned. “I like that.”
“Actually, I kind of had this epiphany the other day.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah,” I shook my head. “Forget it; it’s stupid.”
“Now you’ve got me curious. Come on,” he added when I shook my head again. He gave me an encouraging smile. “I’ll buy you a muffin,” he offered.
I laughed. “Okay, then.” I held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “It happened after I read your book.” I stopped and chewed my bottom lip, trying to find the appropriate words to describe my revelation while Rad sat there with an expectant look on his face. “I’ve sat in on several interviews with writers, and not all of them strike me as tortured souls. So it got me thinking, because a lot of literature is about struggle. But I don’t think all writers are sad. I think it’s the other way around—all sad people write. It’s a form of catharsis, a way of working through things that feel unresolved, like undoing a knot. People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.”
Rad nodded thoughtfully. “And because they do, some will inevitably end up as writers,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“So we’ve had it backward this whole time.”
“Well, it was just a thought,” I said with a shrug.
“I like it.” He smiled at me, and I found myself smiling back.
Several cups of coffee later, the rain was coming down thick and fast. Only a few cold, soggy fries remained in the basket. The sky was growing darker. “I should head off,” I said, glancing at my phone. “I’m going to miss my bus.”
“I can give you a lift home,” he offered.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know,” he said playfully. “I think I am starting to have second thoughts now.”
We left the café and made our way to Rad’s car, doing our best to dodge the rain.
“You still drive the same car.”
“It hasn’t been that long since we last saw each other,” he said, getting in the driver’s side.
“But it feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” I slid into the passenger seat, and it was like entering a time capsule. “I suppose it’s because so much has happened since.”
We looked at each other for a moment, our expressions quizzical. Drops of water slid from our hair and fell onto the gray fabric upholstery. I felt along the seat, and that same tear was still there. Rad reached into a duffle bag in the back seat and pulled out a large beach towel, passing it to me. I dried myself as best as I could before handing it back. As Rad toweled his hair, a flicker of something passed through me. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but for a split second, it felt almost intimate. “So,” he said, tossing the towel carelessly into the back seat, “where to?” I gave him my address as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Do you know what’s ironic about writers?” Rad said, as we sat in heavy traffic. The sky outside was almost pitch black, and the rain was pounding steadily on the windshield.
“What?”
“Writers take things that are deeply personal, things said to them in confidence, often during moments of great intimacy, and strip them down into words. Then they take those words, naked and vulnerable, and give them to the world. Yet in spite of this, writers struggle more than most when it comes to sentimental attachment. They only write about things they’ve felt deeply. That’s the thing about writers—on one hand everything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.”
“Is that off the record?” I smiled.
“Is anything?” he replied with a grin.
“I think you’re right, though.” My face grew serious. “Some of my colleagues have admitted to sacrificing their integrity for a really good story. I suppose the act of writing is in itself a form of betrayal.”
Rad nodded. “I agree. Writing is a conduit. It opens up a passageway into the past. Not just for the writer, but for the reader too. Both readers and writers are linked by the commonality of human experience.”
“Yeah,” I said. I looked at the figures walking on the street outside, their silhouettes warped by drops of rain sliding down glass. “But it’s always a little skewed. You can never relive a moment through writing. You can only retell it.”
“Yet things always seem less artificial when you’re looking back. Time lends it an authenticity that nothing else can.”
“I think it’s because we romanticize the past. We give it more than it deserves.”