Not a Story

This is not a story.

I am in a restaurant, sitting at the bar, waiting. Waiting for a table, for a friend to return. For Kathryn Janeway, who is eating dinner with three other people, to notice me. Or not.

When we arrived on Earth, I stayed with her. I was not Starfleet. Or rather, I was a Starfleet research project. And as such, they would have housed me. But she said she wanted to keep an eye on me, and so she asked me to stay. So as to be able to observe me, and the repercussions of their research.

In the mornings we went to work. Or rather, she went to work, and I went to be worked upon. Though they said my cooperation and insights were invaluable.

Sometimes in the evenings we sat in the kitchen. Sometimes she went out. Then she would be dressed up, made up, would say good night to me before she left.

One night, late, she came to my room.

She told me that she would not lie to me. She said very little else.

For several days she came. Then she stopped. Then she said she knew someone who had some extra rooms, an apartment really.

Once, I screamed with the pain of being alone. I blamed her, I threatened to kill her; she held me in her arms. But that was many years ago. In a story that behavior would come here, but I did none of these things. I moved out.

This is not my story. I have read a number of stories. There is a usually a central character. She does things, and things are done to her, and there is a sense to it, a purpose, an order. A journey. An understanding. I do not understand. I don't even understand what I should understand.

Perhaps there is a story, her story. Perhaps I was part of somewhere she was going. Perhaps there are reasons that she wanted me, and reasons that she stopped wanting me, and they are part of that other story. Perhaps there are problems, lovers, intrigues, longings, regrets. The things one finds in stories. Not just a woman who comes over to where I sit, stands beside me, greets me, asks me how I am doing.

"It was a year ago," I say. I do not say "anniversary" though the word occurs to me. I have heard the term "anniversary reaction," and I believe it usually refers to the anniversary of a death. No one has died.

"I know," she says, "I'm good with dates. Remember?" Her smile is small, asymmetrical.

For a moment she looks at me. I remember when she stood in the Delta Flyer and listed the dates of things I had done, things she had remembered. And my distrust disappeared and I knew that I would trust her completely, forever. Maybe that was my story.

She is looking back at her table now, at the people she came with. Her friends, her colleagues, enemies, lovers, family? Is it their story, too, or are they like me?

The bartender hands her a drink which I did not notice her order. She picks up the glass, raises it slightly, waiting. I lift mine to meet it. Near full, the two glasses make a heavy unmusical clink. She drinks.

"I'm sorry," she says. And she is.

End