Oliver and Agatha

2023-02-14 · essays

Not my words: a monologue by Exurb1a, which I posted on 2023-02-14 because it said something I could not.

Oliver wakes from a horrific dream, a joke set in a bar with talking animals. Oliver lives on the fifth floor of a modern apartment block. He is of average height. He dislikes asparagus. He adores the work of Andrei Tarkovsky.

Below Oliver, in number 23, is Agatha. She is of average height. She dislikes Venice, specifically gondoliers. She adores the work of Isaac Asimov. Agatha and Oliver do not realize they live in the same modern apartment block. They have met only once, and it was a bit shit.

It transpired in this fashion: Oliver owns a Newfoundland dog called Bertrand. He is of average height. He dislikes Pavlov's experiments. He adores the work of Comrade Laika. One Saturday afternoon, Oliver required nourishment for Bertrand the Newfoundland and, by chance, wandered into Agatha's pet shop.

Oliver apprehended Agatha was reading a book called "A Scanner Darkly," a personal favorite of his. Agatha apprehended Oliver who was clearly incapable of dressing himself and perhaps, like her, was also only ever pretending at being a real person.

Upon making eye contact, their heart rates both approached severe tachycardia. Oliver selected some dog food at random and approached the counter. "Mmmmnahey," Agatha said. "Aahay, sha," Oliver replied. They exchanged an amount of currency. The transaction was completed.

Oliver stood at the counter a moment too long, waiting to say something clever and charming. "Horse walks into a bar," Oliver said. "Pardon?" Agatha said. "[awkward laugh]," Oliver replied. "[awkward giggle]." Agatha said.

Oliver walked home in the rain swearing to himself at medium volume. The horse dream joke," he thought. "What the hell is wrong with me?" Agatha continued reading, but was unable to keep any of the words in her head. Her brain was throwing a small shame party for her.

It was neither the first, not the last. By coincidence, many of Oliver and Agatha's molecules have been formed in the same star many millions of years in the future. The star exploded backwards in time, you see, but this is beside the point. As a result, Oliver and Agatha are two of just thirty-four humans in the world actually suited to pair-bond in a manner that would almost always be nice, and never fall into contempt.

And the days continue. Wake, work, eat, sleep, dream, wake, think, be. "Is it possible," Oliver wonders, "that one could find the great lostness in another's face, and know you're meant to be together?" Oliver has located Agatha by the pet discount social media group page, and knows Agatha is called Agatha. He will not go back to the pet shop because that would look desperate.

Agatha, on the other hand, remains at work during the days and watches the door in her peripheral vision. Each time the little bell on the door rings, she looks up, only to find it is not Oliver-shaped. She has looked up Oliver in the pet discount client database and knows Oliver is called Oliver. All about them, the city. People commuting, and worrying, and passing by in ties and dresses and large 4x4 vehicles; the mid-tone cacophony of living and dying and paying taxes.

"No, actually, fuck this," Oliver thinks one Saturday. He dresses semi-formally and leaves the house. Heart rate of 75,000 beats per minute, Oliver enters Agatha's pet shop. "Hello again, I-" Oliver begins and stops. It is not Agatha sat at the desk, but a portly middle-aged gentleman.

"Ah, Agatha?" Oliver says. "Agatha doesn't work here anymore," the portly middle-aged gentleman says. Oliver exits the shop and heads home. "You idiot," Oliver thinks. "You hesitant idiot." Young and stupid Oliver, and no one comes to visit.

A heavy storm begins and soaks him. Observing the same storm from a hygienically questionable coffee shop is Agatha. "Insouciant," her manager called her. "Daydreamy, lackluster," a most indignant firing.

Happiness is an unachievable myth peddled by those too afraid to admit the world's default state is misery. Oliver reaches his modern apartment block and enters. Agatha drives home through the rain, numb, and parks underground, and takes the lift up through the very same modern apartment block, being hers also, of course.

The lift stops at the ground floor. The doors open. Agatha is greeted by Oliver, the man incapable of dressing himself. Oliver stares back at Agatha, the woman with decent taste in science fiction. Oliver enters the lift. They stand in silence for quite some time. The lift reaches Agatha's floor.

Quietly, Agatha says: "What did the Barman say?" "Sorry?" Oliver says. "What did the Barman say back to the Horse?" "Ah, 'Why the long face?'" Oliver says. "And then?" "Ah, just lots of shouting, really- Do you maybe want to go to the theater some time-" "Yes," Agatha says. "Now?" "Yes," Agatha says.

The lift doors close, the two of them still inside. Agatha presses the ground floor button. They turn out onto the street. The storm has stopped. Outside, all about them, the city. People returning home from work, and fretting, and passing by in suits and coats and small electrically-powered vehicles, the sepia-tone cacophony of birth and death and housing deeds...