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NOTE: This is one of my worst pieces to date but I have a stubborn fondness for it. It's from Orri's point of view, and... um... it sucks. And it's not capitalized.
jónsi was humming. i remember that because it was so bleak outside, so gray and bland, that everything was shrouded in a dream-like mist and jónsi's humming was like a gawdy pink plastic flamingo in someone's front yard: a break in the merciless monotony. he didn't know i was awake, he didn't know i was watching him cook his own breakfast.
ever the self-sufficient one. ever the fiercely independent one. jónsi cooked his own meals apart from us, largely due to the fact that he was the only vegetarian, but partly because he was happily building a wall of self-induced angst and silent suffering around himself. he wholly enjoyed isolation, almost like how one might enjoy holding their newborin child in their arms or publishing their first novel (which would then go on to win all manner of literary awards) - it gave his life meaning. it justified his very existence.
georg's theory was that jónsi was always waiting for someone to forget him. there was inevitably someone who would begin to forget to inquire about his absence, which would then grow into a complete lack of any memory of him at all. first he would forget jónsi's face, his voice, his name. then those around him - the forgetful one - would allow themselves to forget, much in the manner of how a cancer spreads through one's body. once the whole world had completely forgotten jón ŝor birgisson and any memory he had ever created, then how would anyone know he had existed at all? jónsi tested this disease of fickle forgetfulness supposedly for several reasons, but i'm sure the real purpose was just to see how people would react if jónsi suddenly dropped out of their life. he was waiting for someone to gladly forget him. he was waiting for someone to willingly paint over his memory.
jónsi held onto his independence and individuality because, being a man like jónsi in a world like ours, you had one of two options: take a handful of sleeping pills and chase it with a bottle of liquor, or struggle your whole life and make your own way. jónsi was a young vulnerable queer freak with too many gifts, a too-quiet voice, and a sightless right eye. he was as out of the ordinary as you were ever going to get. the odds are mind-boggling, but the fact that small, quiet, skinny jónsi overcame them (to become a critically acclaimed appreciated figure of resigned earnesty and beautiful soundscapes no less) can make you laugh or cry. i had done both, several times - but never in jónsi's presence. that wasn't allowed.
jónsi was a truly compassionate guy, but - despite popular belief - he was only human. we still had awkward silences in our conversations. he still bled when he got cut, and wrinkled his nose and whimpered softly when kjartan cleaned it out with peroxide. he was still just learning english. he still went out cd-shopping every week or two, he still was terrible at typing on the computer (he used only two fingers), and he occasionally still came to my apartment to watch a movie and fall asleep on my couch - sometimes with his head in my lap.
and he still burns toast too, i note, as he curses under his breath and pulls two blackened slices of bread from the toaster.
i clear my throat and he jerks his head up, his eyes wide. he can't believe he's been caught making a mistake. the sun is coming out, in tiny little wisps, gradually teasing us like a woman lifting her skirt. the clock is crooked on the wall, so i can't read the time, but i guess it's around 9 in the morning.
"do you want me to make you breakfast?" i ask.
jónsi still looks indignant at the fact that i have trespassed on his private morning ritual, but slowly he nods to me. i can see that wall he's built shaking at its base, like a dam about to spill over. as i pass him to reach for a plate, i plant a casual kiss on his cheek. with a silent breath, the wall shatters. nothing changes in the air, there's no magical transformation, no light in his eyes, no gasping declaration on his lips. in fact, he doesn't even move.
i know by tomorrow morning the wall will be up again, and jónsi will have isolated himself again. but open any architecture textbook and read a page or two. a wall can only be rebuilt so many times. we just have to keep pushing at it, destroying what jónsi has built, until finally he realizes no one is going to forget his presence. how could they?
our eyes meet for a second. i rip off a chunk of bread from the loaf sitting on the counter, butter it, and offer it to jónsi. he takes it from my fingers with his teeth. it takes all of my concentration for me not to grin, but in the end, i do, and i know from the way that he grins back that his wall won't be up again tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.