The Fate of Droplets (i)

In the absence of posting about imbalance, which I plan on doing shortly, I provide the first section of a story that needs serious editing. At the moment, it is titled The Fate of Droplets, which probably sounds too melodramatic, but that is what I have so far. It is another work of "weird fiction," but ought to be somewhat more palatable than others. Miss Kalisa has inspired me to work on it all the more, but I will not have the time tomorrow, so I decided to get some done on it tonight.

Also, I am thinking fondly of those friends of mine who have returned to Gustavus campus. If I have the time, I hope to make a few phone calls tomorrow.

And now, part one of The Fate of Droplets:

I was with him when he spoke with the monk at the Buddhism Center. The question Henry asked escapes me now, but the monk turned to the window, presented its rain-streaked pane with an open palm, before responding.
“We are water droplets, meandering down the sheet of glass, contacting our surroundings and moving in response to them. All the same, the droplet chooses a path in the same way we choose our paths even if it looks chaotic from our perspective.” He stepped over to the window and slid it open, jostling dozens of droplets loose, causing them to shudder down abruptly. Henry and I joined him on either side as the monk reached out and caught a fluttering droplet from the outside of the window. “Sometimes, despite all of our efforts, one amongst us is selected by forces we do not control and moved beyond what we know and into unfamiliar territory. Notice this droplet,” he raised his finger and arm, allowing it to race down along the inside of his elbow and into his robe, “its journey is unlike any of its companions, nothing it could have done prepared it for its new sojourn along my arm.”
“Brother James, What causes these changes in our paths? Do you mean like a death in the family or failing out of school?” Henry asked; I felt distinctly out of my depth and I glanced around at the simply furnished meditation room, with its stacked mats along the far wall and the undetailed, almost primordial Buddha statue in the center of the front wall.
Brother James examined the trail left by the droplet, seeing it fracture and evaporate off of his warm skin. “I believe that your thinking is like the droplet still on the window; what you are thinking of are the concerns of the window, now the concerns of the space beyond the window. In order to understand the influences from beyond the window, meditate on the pane of glass and how it is only a pane of glass, unable to reveal the nature of the room of which it is a part. Also, notice that the droplet itself reflects the room and other features of the window like the other droplets. We resemble one another through mutual reflection, but we also may reveal aspects of the world that we do not easily see. Through this, you may come to greater understanding.”
“Thank you, Brother, I will consider this.” Henry then bowed slightly, followed by Brother James's bow. Henry whispered, “Lex, stay here, I'll be right back,” as he found the restroom and so I stood awkwardly with Brother James, with whom I rarely spoke unaccompanied. I watched as he examined the retreating path of the droplet and saw a strange look cross his face.
“Brother James, are you alright?” I asked, attempting to practice the etiquette Henry had taught me.
“No, but my reasons are vague. Henry is very dedicated and I think that the answers to his questions are important. I can only hope that when he finds them, they are sufficient.” He finally let his arm rest. “Good day, Alexis, I hope to see you again.”
Brother James walked away and I puzzled over what he had told me. It struck me as cryptic and his tone, though moderate and mild, had sounded reserved and pensive. I looked out the window, hoping for a distraction from these thoughts, but could find very little. Gray cars raced about in the gray street, gray rain streaking down everything. I had expected a good deal more for my day off, but the rain and the Buddhism Center, pursued as part of Henry's routine, had cast me in a drowsy and disconcerted mood. Despite my best efforts, I continued thinking of the pane of glass, the droplets, and what Brother James said.
Henry returned and we left the Center by the stairs and out the side entrance. I opened my umbrella and Henry raised the hood of his crinkling, second-hand jacket, and in the act I stepped into a chip in the sidewalk, soaking my shoe. I shook it gradually, in meager hopes of drying it, as we walked the three blocks to Henry's apartment. He had moved out in order to be close to work, near enough to school, and had found a place so close to the Buddhism Center that he could not pass it up. I had gone away for school but was home now, determining some of the options ahead over the course of the year, while Henry continued to go attend classes and work, accomplishing his tasks a little more slowly but with plenty of interesting occupations in the meantime. I had hoped to reignite our friendship upon my return, but so far, I felt lackluster in the attempt. We had joined one another for conversations that always closed sharply, without the sort of happy resolution and smiles that I had experienced with him in high school or at college with others. All the same, I found his character insightful and forced my company upon him when time allowed.
Henry's apartment was simple and suggestive of his yearning for straightforward living, uncluttered and contemplative. His furniture was second-hand and sparse, often decorated in patters reminiscent of grandparents' homes, except for the floor pillows neatly set against one wall, which he favored himself most of the time. He maintained a tidy kitchen with store brand foods in the cupboards and fresh produce in baskets on the counters and table. He rarely ate out and only in the comfort of other friends who were determined to pull him out of what they felt was his bubble. I recognized that his lifestyle was not that of a bubble, but that of consideration, a life that would be confounded by the luxuries of regularly eating out or seeing films twice a week like his English, art, and film major friends. Nor did he keep alcohol around, a restriction picked up from studying Buddhism, though even the monks at the Center would join laypeople for drinks once in a while.
The one luxury he did allow himself was a queen-sized bed, acquired when his grandfather passed away four or five years ago. He kept it made and the blankets tightly tucked, but it comically filled almost the entire bedroom floor and had been a struggle when he first moved in. His mother had sternly decided that it would neither fit through the doorway nor in the room beyond, but his father and he had pulled and fought all the same and it fit, even if it did partially block the closet door, which Henry tended to keep open as a result.
When we settled in, Henry put water on for tea and we began to talk. He was enthusiastic about his conversation with Brother James and he spoke rapidly. The tea pot whistled and he made tea in a small pitcher with a sieve to keep the loose leaves out of the tea cups. The mild scent of the tea, mixed with a few drips of honey, enriched the room with a happy depth and sweetness. I decided to not mention what Brother James had said and we quickly moved onto topics somewhat less involving, like distant friends and music performances, then to a party that weekend that we may or may not attend depending on who we assumed would show up.
We sipped the tea and enjoyed the comfortable silences in between our snatches of conversation to similar degrees and I eventually checked the time. I had made dinner plans and a possible movie date with someone, so I finished my tea and took my leave. I was happy to have found a new sort of bond with Henry. The long afternoon reassured me, and I left excited for our next meeting and the possible attendance of the party that weekend.