One step beyond

She doesn't want it. She fights against it. But if she were honest, she expected more. Perhaps she's too sincere. Perhaps she’s too naive, too gullible. But secretly, she thinks she has the right. Why shouldn't a person have expectations? Desires? Longings?

She stands at the door of her house. It's evening. The brass bell of the City Church shows that it's ten o'clock. The streetlamps shine their soft yellow light on the damp cobblestones, on the sidewalk, on the narrow gardens of the 1930s terraced houses.

She fumbles with the key in her hand, about to open the front door. From the town centre, snatches of music drift. It's a party night. The city is celebrating its 750th anniversary. This day marks the culmination of all the festivities that have taken place over the past week. Theatre performances, music concerts, flea markets.

It's also her birthday. She realizes, this milestone pales in comparison to what the city's residents have to celebrate.

A car pulls up. They're the neighbours from across the street. Chatting, babbling, joking. They trip over the sidewalk, they stay down. And in the meantime, they can't stop laughing.

Then they try to get up. They lean on each other. Then one falls, then the other. But they keep singing, babbling, jabbering. Finally, they manage to get into the house. Then the street is quiet again. The remaining noise comes from the city’s festivities

Would she rather be like her neighbours? Like her fellow city dwellers? Cheerful, drunk, carefree? Deep down, she longs for it. To not always have to be so serious. So involved, so willing to be there for others. To not volunteer at the food bank every week, to not clean so often at the homeless shelter, to be less deeply concerned about the plight of war victims, refugees.

Has she ever known a different life? An existence serving others? As a nurse, as a social worker. Always putting the needy, the poor, the underprivileged, the deprived first. She always steps aside.

Isn't it time she takes a step forward? That she asserts herself? Shows herself? And what would happen then? Would people recognize her? Would they accept her? If she raises her voice? If she claims space for herself? As a person? As an individual?

The sky explodes in a fan of bright colours. Purple, white, gold, blue, yellow. The fireworks are set off. With deep admiration, she follows the graceful, wild, and unexpected movements of the rockets, the fountains, the willows, the pistils, the comets.

Could her life have been like this? More colourful, more powerful, more enthusiastic? Instead of what it is now. Gray, powerless, cold?

Perhaps if she had made choices for herself. If she hadn't always listened to what others thought was right. Believed was just.

Would she have had a relationship now? Children? A good job? A second home in Spain? An expensive car? Fashionable clothes?

She stares at the key in her hand. She hears the bangs, the booms, and the hiss of the fireworks display. Does she want to go inside her house? And then? What awaits her in the cold, obvious rooms? The confrontation with a stressful, troubled past? The missed opportunities? The worn-out desires? The raw disappointment?

It's still possible now, she thinks. I can turn around and go to the city. To the alleys, the pubs, the party halls. I can immerse myself in music, drink, pills, and light shows. Who will recognize me? I'll be one of them. One of the partygoers. I'll be one of the merrymakers, too. One of the many people enjoying life. Of mortals seeking happiness, pleasure, enjoyment, fun.

I will have a new purpose in my life, she muses. The search for entertainment, for amusement. I will make friends. I'll never have to feel alone again. I will blend in with the crowd. I will be recognized. People will hug me, pat me on the back.

She opens the front door and hangs her coat on the coat rack. She hasn't even stepped foot in the living room when all the lights come on. Loud cheers arise from the obvious room. They are waiting for her. Her friends. Her family. They yell. Congratulations.