I clicked and scrolled through pages of information from every tenuous link as I unmasked Jenny's digital shadow. I browsed a cache of photos where Jenny lowered her social guard: an eighteenth-birthday party album on her daughter's Facebook.
I found her Instagram account, listed under her first and middle name abbreviated. I pawed casual snaps posted for her friends of sweet interior intimacies, the thumbnails of home renovations. Until I saw a post of Jenny cuddling her cat; her affection made me jealous!
I remember Jenny mentioned playing squash at lunch. I searched the Suburban Squash Association pages. I followed several links, downloaded PDF newsletters, and located Jenny in a team photo. Her hair was tied back for a trophy presentation night. I lingered on her stray black wisps.
Then I concluded my search, not because I felt a guilt attack, but because I found the image I yearned for on one of Jenny's friend's Facebook pages.
It connected Jenny's past and present.
I saw a snapshot of her attending a musical theatre night. She held the show program in her hands. She wore a green evening dress, contouring her femininity. A camera caught her mouth open, her cheeks laid high and accentuated. I felt instantly envious of Jenny's unseen company at the theatre.
I slammed my laptop, only to re-open it immediately afterwards.
Later, on the wrong side of midnight, I drifted to bed. My partner slept soundly as I tossed restlessly.
Rhea aired her concern at breakfast, "Is it a tough case?"
The morning newspaper lay on the table unread; I scrapped my regular habit of skimming the sports pages.
"Yes," I lied, hastily spreading honey on toast.
She understood case detail confidentiality.
"It's infidelity," I blabbed by accident.
I meant to say 'embezzlement!'
My conscience beat my ego in selecting a spoken word.
She rubbed my shoulders and refilled my coffee cup. I scoffed at my toast. Hot coffee scorched my tongue.
"Is traffic grid-lock a bother?"
Rhea patted my shoulder, supportive.
I gave a rushed "Yes."
I gobbled up my breakfast and drove to the court district, parking in the West Street car park. I arrived early and paced beside my car, scolding myself.
Last night, I trespassed on Jenny's privacy online.
Jenny uncloaked what she wanted yesterday as she filled in the surface information of her current life. With her open nature, she divulged too much!
Even worse, I collected and hoarded each word she said over lunch!
She revealed what suburb she lived in!
Last night, I checked the white pages online. In a too-easy search, I found her name and address. Next, I Google mapped her home and viewed a red-bricked house on a sizeable gardened block. My memory attached her house to Jenny.
Flustered and guilty, I re-slammed my laptop.
In the car park, still pacing, I glanced in every combination of directions.
I expected her to drive in and park beside my car. I fancied a mistrial and the day suddenly belonging to us.
My rational mind informed me Jenny could park anywhere! While my feet urged me towards the courthouse, my mind stayed in a maze of memories, seeking Jenny.
As I approached the court precinct, I saw Jenny relaxing on the public seating to the side of the central court building.
She watched autumn leaves fall. Silver birches surrounded the grassed area, and the leaves displayed seasonal colours. The early sun offered weak rays. Her amber eyes tracked me before looking at the fallen leaves.
As I strode closer, her face released her friendliest smile.
I decided to capture this moment.
My memory recorded as I insisted.
Her leather boots looked expensive and stylish, and her heavy watermelon coat suited autumn. I considered sitting next to her on the broad bench. Instead, I stood in front of her in a social space. My feet crunched and scattered settled golden leaves.
I sought the personal from Jenny, encroaching with my eyes.
I studied the morning light as it changed her amber hues. Her charcoal brows were arched, thin, and manicured—her hair was dark, maybe dyed, forever raven hair in my mind's eye.
I sensed past sparks were beyond reigniting.
We chatted about our daughters: a mutually safe topic. We talked about the parties they attended and the hangovers they endured.
Then, I saw another juror approaching the courthouse. Our two would be three.
I yearned to release the Jenny I had bottled up years ago.
My pent-up, ego-suppressed longings cascaded as fancies released like a genie from a bottle.
I straightened tall in my now or never moment.
Yet equally, hangdog, I felt my cheeks sag.
It wasn't the right time. I don't reckon there ever would have been.
I said softly, "I find myself wanting to be where you are?"
Her face shot open, and her eyes widened.
Jenny responded immediately, "I thought you were happy?"
Her head cocked, quizzing while her eyes watered.
"Chunks," I offered.
I searched for her eyes; she gave them.
Her eyes welled with compassion.
She understood me; I wasn't asking to be her guy. I wished to be inside her parenthesis of being. I wasn't propositioning her. Instead, I finally realised that choosing a transient Eden cost me Jenny's earthbound friendship.
The dissatisfaction lay within me, overridden by selfish indulgence.
How wrong of me; I had Rhea!
My feet shuffled, cracking fallen birch leaves.
I yearned for what Jenny and I should have done. I hadn't, on a single occasion, cooked her a meal. I never stood side by side to wander our thoughts into Davies' Moonrise at the NGV. We never donned the swanky gear to attend a full symphony orchestra concert.
Tear droplets welled in her eyes, hovering on release.
She leaned forward; her lips pressed.
I understood she sought to encapsulate and position me - post me.
As her brow furrowed, I sensed her mind wandering into the time passed we shared.
I glanced at her eyes, pleading within myself for her amber orbs to annul any tears.
I sensed we were an ocean apart and had no bridge.
A profusion of falling birch leaves distracted us. The brilliant autumn tints mixed brownish, orange, and buttery yellow in a flurry.
Instinctively, childlike and innocent, we extended our hands wide, yet neither Jenny nor I caught a floating leaf.
Then we were two heads down, feet shuffling in the leaves as neither spoke.
Seconds dragged on awkwardly. I glanced at my watch, concluding, Break the silence or enter the court.
Jenny stood up; I thought to leave and enter the courthouse.
Instead, swaying, she broke the silence, "I was abominable," she self-accused.
Instantly, I knew she was referring to how she broke up with me.
Her words stunned me, and my hand wiped a dry mouth.
She labelled herself horribly, as I had never done.
She gazed down and away with watery eyes. As she spoke it, I couldn't let her rebuke herself.
I came over the top of her soul-flagellating word.
"No, I was there too. I didn't communicate well enough," self-effacing, as I swallowed and blinked, conflicted.
I remembered how I hadn't expressed my deeper feelings for Jenny. Yet her final phone call was anguish to recall.
Though my conscience strafed me. Abominable pounded in my skull like a tattoo gun; I was betraying Rhea.
I slumped and bowed my head. My selfishness stabbed my core.
Jenny said abominable in a measured way. She was always cogent with her word choices.
Abominable carried so much self-deprecation.
I understood her perspective as her words rang in my ears.
How she left me was abominable!
A phone call stating, 'I'm not coming back!'
Yet I concluded my thoughts: Jenny was never abominable, nor could I leave the word attached to her because, in our time together, she gave me her heart, mind, and soul.
Jenny shared a memory, realising I hadn't set her memory free.
Her eyes cleared as she told me of the time I invited her to visit a country gallery.
"I liked that Mill Gallery. When you took me, it was my first time in a rustic gallery."
As she started, I recalled buying a landscape painting and Jenny's surprise at how quickly I decided to purchase the artwork.
As she continued, her stance relaxed, and her hands opened.
"I loved the ambience, the sheer variety and creativity of oils, watercolours, copper and leather work."
My memory etched Jenny's figure into a double-storey preserved mill house as she spoke.
I liked the afternoon then and even more now as I remembered her.
Jenny's recall of the Mill was tender-hearted in its brevity.
She accidentally caught a falling leaf in her spread hands as she concluded.
I understood whilst she exhibited no latent feelings for me, she understood my retrieved feelings for her. She hoped I sensed; I could construe releasing her by holding the Mill as a final memory.
I realised this was her intention as she returned the shell to me in the mail years ago.
I savoured her choice of the Mill, though it amounted to only one hour from our array of interlocking days.
Strange, too, because it was not one of my premium memories for recalling Jenny.
Her choice of the Mill surprised me, as her pick from our tangy coupling. Yet I relished how she summoned the Mill Gallery as naturally as catching the tan leaf on her open palm.
The Millhouse now permanently resides in the vanguard of my memories.
Through Jenny's shared memory of the Mill, we became one again for a moment outside a courthouse. Our minds connected from the past and carried forward all we previously shared.
Never abominable, she compassionately held our memories in her mind and heart.
"Look," she changed direction, letting the leaf float, "It's time to go in. I didn't understand what it meant to be in a relationship then."
Other jurors commenced arriving. Jenny took the first step.
"Thank you, Jennifer," I managed modestly as we entered the courthouse foyer.
She made eye contact, "I wish you well," she said warmly.
Jenny and I then parted ways, caught in pleasantries and small talk with the other jurors.
The clerk directed us into the jury box as the case recommenced.
Proceedings unfolded following a bout of whispered legal talk at the bench. The judge peered over his glasses and informed the jury that the trial was abandoned.
He stated: "An incomplete crown case."
My heart pumped faster as I realised the certainty of seeing Jenny in the courthouse for the next few days evaporated. The opportunity to see Jenny was handed over to unpredictable chance.
Would I ever see her again?
With difficulty, I listened attentively to a lengthy legal summation revolving around 'grave reservations' in the Crown's case.
I glanced at the co-accused. The guy started fist-pumping and bouncing up, back-slapping his defence team. The head of the auburn-haired lass sunk to the table, her hands covering her face.
The judge thanked the jury and dismissed us. The court clerk directed us to collect our bags and coats and leave.
As we entered the juror's room, morning tea arrived. Wrapped triangle sandwiches, a fruit platter, cheese, biscuits, and olives were offered for refreshments.
Jenny laid her coat across her arm and said a few general goodbyes.
I coveted time to speak to her.
I pressed, "Are you staying for the morning tea?"
On a white platter, the oval olives' lustre buffed amber.
I stared at Jenny's eyes — as amber olives— fuelling hazy desires.
She cloaked and fastened her buttons.
I started, "I know this type of olive. Try it."
I held a firm one between my fingers.
Jenny declined the olives on the plate.
To my side, she steepled her fingers and cast, "You can't beat a good olive."
—And Jennifer Frances Taylor was gone.
I stared at her back as she walked away.
She wasn't Lot's wife.
My conscience admired her resolve, but my ego urged her to retrace. I suddenly wished to escort her home, hoping the journey embarked beyond the horizon.
What then?
Would we go to her place? Could I read to her — seated in beanbags — like before?
I wished we were reconnected.
If only she had given me a second chance.
I cherished her open sharing, though.
I treasured Jenny's unique vulnerability, but the penny finally dropped.
We laid unevenly in the mind of the other.
Jenny's journey no longer required my tagging along.
She held firm to her own otherwhere to reach, unaligned with mine.
Finally, I appreciated her gifted second chance.
In the juror's room, with an amber olive in my mouth, I mused how Jenny's essence emulated the country, Millhouse. The gallery's high ceilings and arched windows invited and diffused light naturally.
Yet the image I constructed fell apart as I chewed and swallowed the olive.
I picked up another olive.
Then, as wondrous as the amber of her eyes, I realised I already ferried Jenny's memory blueprint.
My search for lost love subdued in my mind.
Fallingwater filled my thoughts; Jenny held space yet constantly flowed.