Read by Tony Bell
I had not been working long at my new job when I first saw her. I could try and pretend to be cool about it, but from that moment, I knew my heart belonged to this dark-haired angel, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And I resolved that this time I would ride through all obstacles, tackle any hardships until my love was returned.
I had remained in the office, though. Even though my undying love for both had died, I felt it was important to soldier on. To carry my wounds stoically at work, like a true deeply profound individual. And it was while I was heroically reading the Lonely Hearts column in the company canteen one day that I chanced upon the following advert:
“Sensitive intellectual Men required”, it read, “For Clerical Work. Good money paid. Send a self-penned poem with your CV to PO Box 455”
This seemed perfect for me. I feigned illness that afternoon and raced home to prepare my application. It took me till gone midnight to determine which of my poems I should send to my prospective employers. I opted for one of my earliest works. When Emma, my first girlfriend at university, told me she needed “her own space” it had inspired me to write all nineteen verses of “A Gentle Heart Betrayed”.
This work was clearly appreciated, because within days of applying, I received a reply informing me of my success and stating that I could start as soon as I was available. An opportunity I grabbed with both hands. A new office, a new start, a chance to reinvent myself.
From the outset, however, the new job seemed somewhat bizarre. I was expected to work alone, in a cramped, poorly lit office and the electrics in the building were decidedly shoddy. Lights would frequently cut out, or occasionally flare up so bright they would hurt the eyes. But that was not the strangest aspect of working there.
Every morning at seven, a young lady entered my office with a pile of papers that required cataloguing – and then at five another young lady would arrive and collect them. Only the work never took more than two hours max to complete. I was beginning to seriously worry what I might do to fill all that spare time.
At least I was, until my angel came that morning. With a small bundle of papers, and eyes I would climb mountains for. As if compelled by chivalry, I found myself standing up in her presence, but when she looked at me quizzically I found I had lost the ability to speak.
What I wanted to tell her was I now suddenly realised that what I had felt for Evangeline, and Isabel, and Emma, and indeed countless others, had not been love after all. I now knew it to be passing fancy merely. It was only now, as I beheld her loveliness, that I understood true love. This is what I wanted to say, but all I managed was a few puppy-esque whines and a word that sounded like “Loo-roll”
Aware of my awkwardness, this goddess amongst women tried to relax me with a friendly smile. This was so lovely it just made things worse. I could feel my face blushing, my knees threatening to give way. So I was incredibly relieved when that was the moment the lights in my office suddenly flared up to a blinding intensity, before cutting out completely.
“Don’t worry,” I heard her calm angelic voice sing to me through the darkness, “It’s vital I report this development as soon as possible.”
Alone, after her departure, I realised what I could do with all that free time I had in the office. I knew that a woman this beautiful would not be immediately attracted to someone like me. But I had already sensed a keen intelligence to her, that she was more sensitive than most. And I resolved that I would woo this woman with my poetry. I would produce for her an epic love poem, one which she would read and which, upon finishing, would allow her to see me in a new light. My mask of ordinariness would fall away to reveal my true self.
And it seemed from that day on, no other woman came to deliver or collect my papers, allowing me to see my Beloved twice every day. It was inspirational for my work. I was on at least five verses a day within a week. And good ones too, with long French words and actual proper rhymes. I solved the problem of which angle to take on Love – whether the tone should be courtly, melancholic, sexual or cheekily humorous – by basically throwing them all in.
I’m not sure you can put a word limit on true love, but if you could I'm certain it would be much higher than the ten thousand I'd reached when disaster struck. One afternoon I was so focused on trying to look as nonchalant as possible when my angel came to collect the papers, I failed to spot that my own personal writings had been taken along with the office documents.
I only realised this had happened when I arrived at work the next day, and found a note on my desk. “Please Mr Young Man Number 18, Please Come to The Basement. As Soon As Quickly Possible”. When I tried to work out why I had been summoned, I realised the awful truth. I did not know how I could fix this. But maybe, just maybe, my angel had read the poem and liked it. Even if I lost my job, she alone would know I had been fired for love. Maybe then she would see me as worthy of her.
It took me a while to locate where this office had a basement. Eventually I found a dingy flight of stairs at the bottom of which was a small door marked “DO NOT BE ENTERING”.
Hesitantly, I descended the stairs and stood outside the door. I could hear a strange loud buzzing noise from the other side. I paused, listening to it. Then I heard something else. Something much worse.
I heard a voice. My angel’s voice. And she was reading my poem aloud.
Panic took over, and before I knew what I was doing I burst through the door. I was about to shout something when I saw a sight that robbed me of my ability to speak. There in the centre of the room was the source of the buzzing. A large glass sphere, the size of a van, full of shimmering colours. Bolts of electricity seemed to be arcing from it in all directions.
But the next thing I saw was even worse. Standing next to the sphere, speaking into what looked like a large gramophone horn was my angel, reading my very own words.
It was all too much. I heard her speaking the part of my poem where I rhymed “tryst” with “do not know that I exist” and then everything went black.
“You are probably wondering what it was you witnessed earlier.” This was an elderly woman’s voice, powerful and slightly foreign. “Well, young man, I will not lie to you. I am of the thinking that you are quite the most promising recruit we have had for some number of months.”
“Where am I?” I slurred, trying to shake off the blurriness in my eyes.
“My name is not important,” the voice continued, seemingly having misunderstood the question. “You would not have heard of it, I think. This is a cruel world where my own genius is not recognised.“
I tried to say something, but she didn’t stop speaking, “Finally, I think I have it, though. The Source of near Limitless Power.”
“You mean ... my poem?” I interrupted.
“Hah!” she snorted. But then checked herself, “But maybe I should not be laughing. They laughed at me, you understand? Your so-called Men of Science. Your Teslas and Einsteins. When I was just a young girl. I told them I had discovered the greatest source of energy this World had ever known.”
“They laughed to me. But you know, I think, that the Ancients would not have laughed. They were of the understanding that Love was the greatest power. But as simple folk, they did not understand. Nobody did. Till I came along and identified the actual Atomic Particles of Love.”
My vision was slowly returning; I tried making out the old woman talking to me. All I could really see was that her hair was the wildest blue-grey mess I had ever seen.
“My biggest of errors I made first,” she continued, “I attempted to harness the power from perfectly loving couples. Years wasted wiring up happy young people as they kissed, cuddled, celebrated their shared joy in each other. All a total waste of time. Young couples in love are just completely useless.”
“Then, I had, how do you say, then I had the brainwave. The Love particles generated by a loving couple. Their bonds are just ridiculously tightly packed together. No energy can hope to escape.
“But what if there was no bond? What if the Love particles came from one party only? Energy wildly flying into the ether. And this world is so full of the lovelorn. These particles – these unrequitons – I would not be wasting of them. I would harness them!
“And you saw it! It cannot be denied!” I felt her jab my side with one of her bony fingers.
This sharp pain gave me the focus to finally stand up. Angrily, I delivered the only response I could.
“This is monstrous!”
“You would ignore this?” she retorted, “You would waste all this energy?”
“No! Not my poem ...” I turned and fled. Out the basement, out the building. Into the cold street outside. I began walking away as fast as I could.
“Wait, wait!” I heard a voice behind me. My angel's voice. “Please don’t leave. I’ll… I’ll miss you in the office.”
I couldn’t help but pause, “You will?”
“Of course,” she smiled, “Just forget about that crazy old woman. Come back and we could still see each other. I could come round to your office every few days. We could eat lunch together?”
I couldn’t stay angry now I had the prospect of more time with her. Face to face, maybe this would be my chance. There is so much we could talk about. So much I could tell her.
And then she smiled at me, and took my hand. And we walked back towards the building.
And in all the windows above us, the lights burned brighter than they ever had before.
(c) Alan Graham, 2015
Alan Graham studied "Creative Writing" and "Economics" at UEA and is still unsure which discipline relies on make-believe the most. He currently lives and works in London.
Tony Bell: Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons, he’s performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company, Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio and voiceover artist.
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