Jump

Life moves forward, it always does, so why would this make a big difference. That was what Michael Jensen was asking himself from his delicate position near the intersection of two ordinary streets near the edge of an ordinary city. Saying that he was sitting near the crossroads is definitely a delicate way of describing his actual location which would've made a reporter's day if one would have happened to be in the area. But just like everything else in his life that seemed to be very important to Michael, this moment seemed to have completely slipped the notice of all those around him. So it was that he found himself sitting on the small concrete ledge that for some obscure reason had been built right under his window, sitting and wondering what he should do.

After 5 minutes out there he started feeling silly about even considering such a silly thing. Jumping all the way down to the pavement was simply wrong. After all, who couldn't imagine how wrong that would be? The first thing that came to mind was that jumping from his precarious perch on the 5th floor was simply irresponsible. What if he fell on some innocent pedestrian? Or on a neighbor’s car? That would just be terribly inconsiderate of him, to risk another person's safety or to damage their possessions in his rush to get rid of a dull life.

10 minutes later both of those arguments were easily solved by a simple application of mathematics. By measuring the time and noticing that it was quite late, Michael figured out that the chances were quite slim for a mob of random pedestrians to start running back and forth in front of his building. Physics helped him out at the second part though and it was simply used to estimate the point of impact which turned out to be in a very nice zone where there was no risk of him destroying somebody’s property. That thought brought a smile to his face as he couldn't help but wondering if he could get a postmortem vandalism charge. After all, if it worked with badges, then why couldn't it have been the same with fines?

After yet another 15 minutes a new idea popped up into his mind, one again putting the application of his plan on pause for the moment. After all, if one thing could be said about Michael, a thing on which all his coworkers and his friends would unanimously agree upon, then that thing is that dear old Michael is a very considerate individual. The guys from the office will be glad to rave to you about how considerate Mike from the IT department is as he strolls down the office hallways like a valiant knight, saving the innocent people of Valken and Strandtz Inc. from the omnipresent threats of the mischievous machines that never fail to try to ruin the lives of the less capable average citizens. His friends would also be glad to share stories about him, some telling about that one time when he actually managed to burn himself on the pan in which his tortellini al forno came in mere seconds after a common friend had warned her child of doing just that. Others would merely laugh and say that yeah, they know Mikey, fine bloke he was, always there when you asked for his help and never too straightforward whether you ask him for criticism or for praise. He kinda likes to keep to himself, they say then, looking a bit thoughtful.

This time, the idea that kept him glued to the small platform's edge was of the mess that he'd make. He didn't know the figures exactly, but one didn't need a big imagination to figure out that the human body had a lot of blood in it. Plus, it was common knowledge that it was tricky to clean once it dried. Sure, Michaela thought, after I'd touch the ground, the mess that I'd make wouldn't be that far in my list of concerns, but really now...would I like having to clean up some guy's blood off the sidewalk just because he didn't have the forethought necessary to come up with all the possible consequences of his actions? A firm no lodged himself in his mind. No, he wouldn't like that one bit, nor would he like being thought of as the inconsiderate bastard that just ruined the sidewalk for everybody. After all, who would like to pass down the same street where a person had just died a few days, months, weeks or even years ago? Not many, Michael knew, especially since a person's death was the reason why he got his apartment for such a cheap price on that cold sunny December day.

I wonder if that guy had to go through the same process before he just decided that checking if down the road was better than across the street was the way to go. As an afterthought, Michael couldn't help but think that that right there had been a considerate fellow. Listening was all that he could do to get old miss O'Flaterty to stop trying to ask how it was to live in that apartment knowing what had happened to the previous person who lived there. The old lady had the spirit of observation typical to those who have nothing else to do all day long but observe how time passes them by. So it was that she alone had been capable of painting the vivid image of how tasteful and how thoughtful that sweet young man had been when he decided to shave a few years off from the time that he was supposed to spend as a productive member of the 9 to 5 plus overtime group. He had even put his best suit on, he did, was how the story always ended. The delicate old lady sharing her approval of a young man who even in such circumstances dressed properly while Michael kept tempting to sneak past her and into the safety created by the delicate yet unyielding obstacle that was his apartments door.

With a long sigh, Mike figured that this plan wouldn't work either. It was too messy, that's what the problem was. After all, since life was so hard, it couldn't have been the fact that he did not actually want to get out of it. IF that had been the case, then he would have simply lived on and wouldn't have even contemplated such a notion as a freefall from a 5 stories height. But as it was, the notion took the shape and path of a paper ball flying towards the gapping maw of a trashcan. Instead of leaning forward, he leaned back, resting his head against the cool brick platform, his feet dangling over the dark streets, swinging between the cones of light cast by the twin lampposts. 5th idea that ended poorly and his head kept on pounding.

It wasn't until he heard the door being slamed by the current that he realized someone had just come into his apartment. The short yelp that followed the sound of something ceramic hitting the floor made it clear that Lizzie was his mysterious visitor and that she had once more found the secret spot where he kept a backup key. "Heya, Mikey," accompanied the sound of paper bags being crumpled and jars, cans and bottles being moved around on the kitchen table. "So, how are you doing? You completely forgot to call and say what you wanted to have tonight for dinner but that's ok, i guess. I just dropped by with Jeff and Ann and we did all the shopping after calling the rest of the gang. Guess what we're gonna have tonight?"

The energetic dance that Lizzie was doing in his kitchen already had him grinning. There was something about the way in which her clothes just seemed to flow around her as she zummed around getting pans and dishes out of coverds and the omnipresent smudges of paint on her face and hair that always managed to cheer him up. Leaning on one elbow so that he could see into the kitchen, Mike just couldn't help from laughing outloud as he saw the large line of green paint stretched down her forehead, clashing brightly with her fire colored hair. His laughter just earned him another chuckle as it was greeted by Lizzie's tongue poking out in his direction before she turned her attention to a bottle that was stubbornly refusing to open. "Well, are you just gonna sit there and let lil' ol' me do all the work," she asked in her cutest tone of voice while holding out the bottle for him to reach out for. A flutter of her eyelashes brought another chuckle from Michael. "You're hopeless, Liz."

"I know," she sighed, "but what do you expect from a poor southern belle like lil' ol' me, my dear?" Without giving him an opportunity to reply, Lizzie turned back towards the kitchen table and started spreading out the ingredients for the night's dinner. These little get-togethers were always fun and Mike was always left feeling great after one of them for days at a time. "So, when is the rest of the gang going to show up," he managed to ask before losing the bottle to Lizz who managed to open it even though he had failed to do so after a few minutes of straining. "I weakened that for you, ya know."

"Of course you did, luv. Now be a dear and chop those onions just like you know to do. You know, small, thin and bathe in tears.' His protests stopped dead in their tracks as she turned and smiled over teasing remark. 'Go on, now, it won't bite," she said, nuddging her head to where the onions were waiting. "Fine, fine, you win but you'd better not screw up the potatoes again. Really now, there's a reason for which they are called baked potatoes with ham and cream sauce instead of being called baked potatoes with soy and cream sauce, you know. Heeeey...."

For a few seconds the onions and the knife were abandoned as Michael sat there rubbing the back of his head while reaching down for the potato that magically flew right into his head. Or at least that's what you could swear that happened if you were to judge by the look on her face, he thought. "Oh, cut the angelic crap, you lil' devil."

"Why, mister Jensen, I do declare..." Her southern belle act was pulled to a quick end as a pair of lips pressed against hers just like the potato glued against her face as Michael clumsily attempted to caress her cheek. "Down boy, down," she said laughing. "Aren't you all up and surprising tonight." The earlier atmosphere in the small apartment now seemed compromised in a way, each of them was taking refuge in their corner of the small kitchen, one next to the onions, the other next to the oven, both trying to make eye contact and failing. "Sooo...how's the...the painting going," Michael asked as he turned back to chopping onions. "Is the exhibit still on a roll?"

"Yeah, it is. It opens next friday and you'd better show up or I'll make you cut onions for the rest of the year, savvy?" Her attempt to loosen up the atmosphere was lost amongst the rhytmic clicking of the knife's blade against the cutting board as Michael tried to lose himself in the process of chopping vegetables. "So, how's the doc's verdict, all ok? Mike?" As her hand glided down till it sat on his shoulder the rhytm faltered. He was sure that the bomb was about to drop one way or another and he doubted it'd be good. Life hadn't been good for Michael for some time. That's why he wasn't surprised when he felt her hand leave his shoulder. No, he just cringed inside and got ready for the whole list of arguments against why what had just happened earlier was wrong.

That was why all his meek acceptance that was standing at the ready simply evaporated when he felt her lips gently crush his into submission as the knife lay abandoned amidst little pieces of onion. "So, how are you feeling now? Still down and ready to mope around like you've been doing for the past few weeks," Lizzie whispered into his face, the sweet smell of her parfume mixed with paint fumes flooded his senses. "Yeah, I've got no reason to complain, do I now?" Her smile filled his eyes. "No, you don't and I'd better not catch you complain about my kiss or there's gonna be a cold night in hell before you're gonna get another one." "Oh, who's saying that, the southern belle or the pirate queen," Michael's teasing erupted into the once more comfortable atmosphere.

"You're just going to have to find out, won't you," Lizzie teased back just as the doorbell rang. "That must be the gang, you just keep on chopping those onions, help's on the way, savvy," was all that Michael managed to catch before she dashed out of the kitchen in a straight line for the apartment door. "Ok," he shouted behind her. The onions however sat waiting for a few more moments as he went to fetch an ashtray and a lighter. To those two he then added a letter in a fancy envelope, a letter which contained a language foreign to him but that spelled out little hope for the future. And as it burned, softly turning into ash, he mentally choked down one more argument against his plan to freefall. But this time it was more of a general argument, one that would just nullify all possible arguments in favor of any plan to shorten the time he'd spend around these parts. The one word argument was stronger than all medical predictions, than all the promises of an easy way out. Plus, the news in that letter had been for a different man, one who was lost in the 9 to 5 life.

He was not that man. And as he returned to the chopping of onions he figured out the best reason for which he was different. Michael Jensen was no longer the man who just had to go to the office and back home, worrying over different projects and get-rich-fast schemes. Michael Jensen was now a man who had to find out the truth about a southern pirate belle and to see an art exhibit that promised to show him the rest of his life. Life moves forward, he thought, but each moment makes all the difference in the world, Michael added as he recalled that each kiss had lasted just a moment, just a flutter of a butterfly's wings across his stomach.