paperback writer

when you tend to have so many pairs of other people's shoes, it becomes quite easy to mix up which belongs to who

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She sits at the tiny table just opposite the gentleman in the corner, his smart-striped tie folded neatly into the crisp collars of his white shirt. Decked out in a sultry-yet-understated one piece, the two would not have looked amiss attending some sort of film festival or fashion event together, her hand delicately draped across his arm as if it had always belonged there. But tonight finds them sitting at a quiet, dingy bar, on bar stools as polished as the bartender's manners. He pays no attention to his apparent dinner partner. His body is angled away obliquely and his eyes rest exclusively on the book in his hands. Her hands are folded politely in her lap as she gazes expectantly in his direction. He glances at her from the corners of his eyes. It's been ten minutes now, since she first sat down without a word, just watching him. It becomes increasingly clear that she doesn't know how to take a hint. Without looking up, he exaggerates a sigh. "Look, I'm very flattered, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time."
"Why is that?" Her voice is smooth, like lilac.
"I have no interest in chasing girls this evening."
"That's alright, I have no interest in running."
He peers over the top of his horn rimmed glasses for a moment then places his book on his lap. There's something unnatural about her otherwise attractive face.
"Who are you, exactly?"
She shrugs. "There are so many people inside me. I'm still trying to decide"
He contemplates returning to his book and abandoning this bizarre conversation, which at this point, can only get weirder but eventually decides against it. There's some mesmerizing quality about her words and her speech. He can't quite put his finger on it. "What do you do?"
"I guess you could say I'm a collector of sorts" she says in a nonchalant, sing-song sort of voice.
"What do you collect?"
"Feelings, that sort of thing"
A pause. "Feelings?"
"It's quite a long story, to be honest"
He nods and leans forward slightly. "I've got time"
She thinks for a moment, takes a sip of her cider and brushes her hair behind her ear, gently placing her glass back on the table. After a moment of pronounced silence, she begins to speak.

"Well, I was a writer initially. Sort of. After graduating, I worked at a tiny, unknown publishing firm as an office assistant, but in my spare time I would scribble short stories or poems in the back of my notebooks. A colleague happened to discover one of my poems one day and made quite a fuss about it. From then on, I became some sort of office phenomenon as 'the girl who could write'. For some reason, my colleagues became enamoured by my simple stories and turns of phrase. Their praises spurred me to consider taking up writing seriously, perhaps attend a few workshops or something like that. Looking back, their kind words may have simply been a form of polite flattery. My stories, to me at least, weren't anything special. But anyway, it became apparent that if I were to start writing for an audience, I would likely have to appeal to their emotions as well, which would be a difficult task, given the limited range and scope of experience at my disposal at the time. You see for as long as I can remember, people have described me as rational, detached or simply cold. Where the appropriate response would be to either cry or rejoice, I would just stand there, unaffected. I did not smile or frown very often. I myself had no idea that this was the case until my own sister pointed it out. It was not that I was unable to - I simply wasn't inclined to. I didn't see the point in performing the same muscle movements that came so naturally to others. Around the time I entered high school, I began to realise that this made the people around me uncomfortable. My classmates started avoiding me or called me a robot. As a result, I would spend hours alone in front of a mirror, practicing my expressions - perfecting them until they seemed genuine and ready to be employed at a moment's notice. I trained myself to react to cues in conversation and body language, but still my features always lacked authenticity. They were always a little stilted, mechanical, perfunctory. Anyway, I managed to master smiling and subtle concern, but I could never perfect my laugh. It always sounded hollow, forced. But at least I was no longer considered a social outcast and they had stopped calling me a robot. Since face to face interaction was such an exhausting ordeal for me, I became a very withdrawn, reserved individual. Although I managed to pretend to have emotions pretty successfully, I never discussed my fictional feelings with anyone, for fear of being found out. I suppose that may have been why my colleagues were so surprised at the fact that I wrote poems. But it was clear to me that these poems were not the sort that contained great meaning or got published and recited for generations to come. They were just a fanciful arrangement of words - idle strokes of the pen - pretty things to look at, but with no real gravity that would hold them together and secure their place in the mind. From then on, I made it a point to expose myself to various mediums - books, movies, music - to try and broaden my comprehension of human experience. Once I got started, however, I was hooked. I discovered that I had an innate talent for deconstructing emotions to their core and studying them. Like Beethoven at a piano or Archimedes before an equation, I could instantly discern where an emotion came from and what it was fueled by. It's difficult to describe but it was as if I could literally taste and grasp the phantom sensations. To this day I'm still not sure why this was so; perhaps it had something to do with my prior lack of experience with emotions. I was able to tell apart types of boredom and frustration that most people wouldn't even be able to recognize. I could catalogue the nuances and components that normally wouldn't register on a person's radar. I travelled far and wide to sample the world's happiness and sorrow. Did you know that there's a certain type of loneliness that can only be found in Japan? There's nothing else quite like it on the planet. As my collection grew so did my repertoire. By dissecting and analyzing the emotions, they became easier to emulate. I could be gregarious one moment, and then bashful the next. In the morning simple and good natured, and in the evening mysterious and melancholy. I soon found that the sort of emotions I had been searching for - the kind that can inspire novels and destroy people - they could only be encountered a certain way. You see, none of those secondhand sources could convey a greater variety or offer a more potent cocktail of emotions than those derived from intimate contact with another individual. It's a tedious process though, understanding another human being - and I don't just mean their words or actions. I mean going beyond knowing their name and occupation - those things are merely indicators of a larger truth - little bits of a bigger picture. I mean knowing what truly makes them tick - hopes, fears and dreams. And it's more than getting them to tell you how they feel. Quite often those under the influence of intense emotions, or particularly subtle ones, don't really know how they feel. All they can give is a vague outline - only shapes, no textures. To really put yourself in their place and feel the things they feel - there's no other way about it. it takes patience - and a delicate touch, like taming a wild animal. Humans almost never fully reveal their real selves to another. One must approach carefully and build up trust over numerous encounters before they feel comfortable enough to show themselves. But one false move and they'll retreat, fast as lightning, into their dense walls of hedge and undergrowth, never to be seen again except for fleeting glimpses of their tails darting between cover from time to time."
She finishes her glass and says nothing else, indicating the end of her story.
He studies her face. It's a good face - neutral. He wonders if this too, is all just an act.
"I imagine you must've met and gotten to know a lot of people"
She nods. "Thousands"
"Did you ever sleep with them?"
"Some of them, yes. Occasionally. Sex means so much less these days. There's nothing invested in the act anymore. Just another tedious social ritual."
"And then you left them"
A nod. "There was nothing more I could learn from them," she says candidly
"Can you tell what I'm feeling now?"
She stops and lowers her chin with her eyes fixed on him. Like a doctor listening to a stethoscope or a person trying to tune the radio into a specific frequency, a flicker of concentration crosses her absent expression. He feels a dull weariness grow over him, as if something inside is being slowly siphoned away.
"A sense of apprehension," she concludes.
"Anything more?"
"Well, I'd have to get closer to know that"
He considers her words for a second. "You make yourself sound like some sort of emotional vampire"
A mischievous smile plays out across her lips.
"Don't worry, I won't bite"
Deadpan. "That's not what I'm worried about"
Her smile vanishes
"What are you worried about"
A pause. "That you'll turn me into you"

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But they're all really your shoes. You've just given them different names