She calls him Willie and laughs knowingly. It is their inside joke and while a handful of people get it later on, the rest of the world do not, but that is okay because they do not have to get it; never is the joke for the world, always for them, her and her Willie darling. The joke is theirs and on their account and never does it belong to anyone else. Always someone feels inclined to ask if his name wasn’t Jonah and the two of them laugh with their eyes caught in each other’s. He always replies, the seriousness evident in his voice, with the same answer. “Of course Jonah is my name. Why would you think not?”
Then she proceeds to call him Willie again and confusion is everywhere.
She lives on confusion, thrives on confusion and sincerely believes later that that is why it only took seconds for her to know him to be her Willie when they first met. She saw it, right then and there, that they would be forever friends. And so they are, the best of friends, the kind of pair you envy for their absolute trust in the other and their ease in which they meet; they have the kind of friendship where nothing is faked or pretended and they simply enjoy the other’s companionship. They are companions. The first time they meet he is watching other kids swinging and she asks why he does not do so too. He says he does not want to and she calls him a sissy and challenges him on a competition of who can swing the highest. He wins, but that does not matter, the point is that after the first time, more friendly and competitive contests ensues. They are kind of special in that way, neither ever hesitating to fight the other or shove their own excellence in the other’s eyes. Not that it prevents their relationship from blooming like daffodils come spring. They are awesome together. Great apart, sure, but awesome together. It comes so naturally to both of them, the trust, the friendship, the love. Not love love, but friendship love. Nothing ever matters but them. So they go to the university together and she calls him Willie and all was well. And they laugh together and they use each other as boxing bags and they have the time of their lives. They play soccer. Climb trees. Get drunk. Fail tests and occasionally pass them. Find jobs. Create a life. Live life. They are best friends. He is her Willie and nothing ever comes between them. He is her Willie.
Then he is hurt and he lies still in a hospital bed. He is 34 and he is young and the world should be beautiful. She stays with him through the night and when he moans in pain she is there and when he smiles in his sleep she knows he is dreaming of her. They are friends, but never just friends, always friends, and when he opens his eyes her and nobody else is there. In the end they know their best mate better than themselves. And they are so secure in each other, because he is her Willie, so sure of the other one’s existence and love and friendship and the simplicity of always being there. Sometimes he cries and she knows that it is okay, that the best is to let him cry until he runs out of tears. When her mother dies and she does not cry, he knows it is okay, because he knows her well enough to know her grief is too deep for tears. At the time she meets a somewhat serious girlfriend of his, she is not nervous or worried that the girl might be a bitch because she knows, deep in the very core of what is her, that she is the one thing permanent and the girlfriend isn’t. And they have other friends of course and they are close and lovely and great but it isn’t ever like that between them. What they have – Char and Willie-love– is so very special.
When they, the world, talk of love; it is the one thing neither of them ever quite gets. Those are the books and the poems that they never quite do understand, the emotion they will never feel. Their love for the other is so great and profound that no one can ever comprehend but never do they feel that desire so greatly connected with love. Never the wish to divulge, devour and explore, kiss, caress and never ever let go. It does not work in that way and so when they sleep they sleep with others and when they kiss they kiss others and jealousy is never involved. But she loves him. Oh, she loves him. He loves her. Never should anyone doubt it. After all, he is her Willie.
Then someone asks and right then they are there again. Are they sure they are not dating, lovers, soul-mates of some kind, loved ones? And because they never feel what others do, Char and Willie-love, can neither fully understand to which extent all of it is asked and questioned. All they can see is doubt followed by annoyance and sometimes even anger at their supposed ignorance. These are the times she lashes out, furious at their self-proclaimed pretense for concern and with fire streaming from her eyes she shouts and roars and wonder what the hell is wrong with them – or perhaps, in her more lucid bursts of wrath – what is wrong with herself. Those are times when their special bond shines like the beacon that it is in a world of ice and hatred and narrow-mindedness and he holds her hand and sometimes giver her hugs and then he whispers and smiles slowly. She looks at him and then she can see, really see, again.
Then they fight, the way they always do because he will forever call her on her crap, her darling Willie. He shouts and pants and throw his fists up in the air in anger, a perfect, fragile mirror of her image, neither backing down, both refusing to consider letting the matter go. And when they reemerge minutes later to the public in laughter, that is when they approach her and say how devoted he seems to her and what a gem he is and is she quite sure she is not in love with him? Forever they approach her, as if she could confess this pretended and by them conjured love while he cannot. Is her friendship displayed differently than his? Always, they seem more inclined to speak their words to her.
She never knows why.
When she eventually dies he doesn’t say anything because it won’t matter. It won’t make a difference. Instead, in a full and true reflection of all the two of them ever was or would be, he leaves home, he attends her funeral and he dies. It is not suicide, he would not end his own life, but it might as well be. It does not matter though. He dies. And just like that their lives are over. A moment in history, in universe, in time, monumentally forgotten.
Willie. It seemed so random but it wasn’t. Never. Not at all. See, he called her Princess.
sjunde augusti tvåtusentio
