A Blunder

Above all else, no matter the situation or practice, the foremost concern is intention; that includes the subliminal. One could argue, as he did, that the subliminal is of utmost importance because it is the subliminal that most often causes the intention to evolve unbeknownst to the castor. He did warn me, and I did insist that I understood, because I did understand, but overall, I must have been underestimating how strong the subliminal was. Ah, I mustn’t avoid the truth. I did underestimate the matter, and in consequence I proved the effect of carelessness.

He warned me that choices made in anger cannot be undone, and of course I knew that. I’d ruminated on everything for weeks, so it is the truth that it was not a decision made in heated haste. Regardless, I thought the advice was silly; no choice can truly be countermanded. What has happened will always remain as what has happened. Human nature can interfere with regret and reparation and love and forgiveness and mistruth and honesty and empathy and spite, but what has happened still has happened. Everything still exists, and it all does so at once, buzzingly, suffocatingly, persistently, whether it was a choice made in anger or intimate consideration or anything else; especially all.

I recall when we met. After my arrival and my knocking and subsequent pleading, he introduced himself as Arionne. He was a scowling creature. I had the notion of him not enjoying his business, and I did inquire as to his disagreeable mood. He told me that I had no appointment and therefore could be described as a bother, to which I assured him I did make an appointment. He then scrunched up his lip and creased his brow towards me before inspecting a little booklet he was keeping inside his pocket. He asked for my name, I told him Clotilde, and in response he took a deep, practiced breath. He asked me, “What day is it, Clotilde?”, and I must admit that I did not know. I’d been traveling for five or six days to get there, to that upset countenance inside that little townhouse, but I could not be exactly sure of the number. My silence prompted him to inform me that it was Wednesday. My appointment was made for Thursday.

“Is it such a devilish thing?” I asked him. I was in the habit of a defensive nature. “It is only one day off.”

“It is such a devilish thing,” he said, quite calmly, closing that little booklet with one swift motion. “I take no appointments on Wednesdays, ever.”

“Then I will return tomorrow,” I told him while clenching my skirt.

“Naturally you would. That is all you can do,” he said, and thus directed me to the door.