The Smallest Parallel

Chapter one

It was a cold and dreary day when Geoffrey took the longest drive he'd ever made to Marguerite's home in the countryside. It was a dismal house. However, that was the exterior, and it kept away all visitors, including mailmen. Marguerite didn't walk outside at this point in her life, and there was nobody there to upkeep it.

The house lacked the luster that he knew Marguerite possessed. It was dull and dreary, with rust colored patches freckling the white siding and windows tinted by years of grime. It was dilapidated, and he wondered if it reflected the way Marguerite's life looked like. He had a strong desire to see the inside, to be on the inside.

Geoffrey looked at the cat perched on the front porch, and he questioned where it came from. It couldn't be hers; she could not even care for herself. The cat did look well fed. Perhaps Marguerite was better off than she had been. Geoffrey knew better than to assume anything of her.

For exactly five minutes, Geoffrey pondered if he should even go to the door. Maybe he was being silly, but he hadn't known Marguerite in forever. Maybe she was too far gone to retrieve, and maybe- the thing he feared most- she was still the girl he had loved in his youth.

Geoffrey looked around at the life he could've lived had he the opportunity to be with her. The tin roof, the dull facade, and the ugly green door were just as they had bene in childhood. Yet he saw things with a different set of eyes.

There was so much detail in the ugliness of Marguerite's current state, but he wanted to be a part of it. He saw the hope he once had in her dead garden; in the rubbage strewn across the yard; even in the gutter full of rain and fallen leaves. All of this was hers; in fact, it was her. He sought the courage to enter her world once again. More than anything, he was curious.

Geoffrey raised his fist to the door, and he thought clearly. He decided to try the knob instead. He wasn't sure what compelled him to enter without invitation. He was just sure that was just meant to turn that handle.

He was right to try the knob, and the door opened for him. He knew Marguerite as forgetful. She wasn't a woman to pay attention to locking doors or doing basic household tasks. As a child, she never understood concepts such as paying bills, and purchasing groceries and basic toiletries. She had never seen her mother act with such responsibility.

It took Geoffrey a minute to adjust to the dim lighting inside of Marguerite's house. She probably hadn't paid her bills in forever. Geoffrey found himself confused by the décor of that first room. None of the things inside looked like Marguerite. These weren't her things. In fact the were reminiscent of her grandmother, Maria. He caught a glimpse flash of some old memory and realized that this room remained untouched by Marguerite's influence. She had left it as it was, as Maria had designed it. Perhaps she didn't often use this room. Perhaps she had changed. In this first room were sparse furnishings, matching rugs laid symmetrically on the gray carpeting, and a horrid puce color scheme just as he remembered from years earlier.

During Geoff's first visit to Marguerite's home, he had been incredibly scared. It was early in their friendship, and Geoffrey was still adjusting to Marguerite's constant changes and quickly paced conversation. He'd found her exciting from the moment they met.

            They'd entered through that same puce room and Maria had been weaving a blanket in the center. She looked focused, completely drawn into her weaving. He'd seen Marguerite with that same expression on her face many times before. She'd inherited her passion from her grandmother.

            "Hello gran," she said upon entering the house. She nudged Geoffrey on the shoulder and smiled.

            "She's a fairy, you know."