Between Silence and Symbols

D. was working on something.

Everybody knew but me.

The other members of the group knew.

Beth knew.

The Tailor knew.

Even the IT guy knew.

I first suspected when I saw him in the upper stacks of the library.

The place where one went to not only study alone, but also the place one went where nobody could approach you of sneak up on you without knowing.

I wanted to know, but I respected D. and gave him his space, however I did notice the books he was carrying.

Not the titles or names, that was to far to see, but the binding of the books, the size, texture and colors.

The weight of the books.

I filed that away and forgot about it.

The tailor handled the theatrical props and regalia for the group and this is where the question first resurfaced.

I was picking up some new clothes and he also handed me something for D.

It was on a hanger, wrapped in white protective plastic, clothing, but concealed.

The Tailor knew D. and I were friends, that I saw him almost every other day, and D. wanted it as soon as it was ready.

Sure why not.

Later in the evening when I was dropping it off at D.’s apartment that is when I remembered the books.

I only remembered them because of how D. received the clothing I dropped off. He didn’t take it casually, but respectfully hung it in the closet, a specific closet without saying a word.

I didn’t ask, and he didn’t elaborate further.

He was getting ready to go out, did I want to grab something to eat with him?

I didn’t overset, I just looked from where I could in the hallway to see if I could recognize any of those books.

D. loved books.

It was one of those Friday night gatherings, a fusion of meet and greet and what passed for one of the weekly meetings, this time in an art gallery not far from the planetarium, I found myself having a conversation with the IT guy.

I called him the IT guy.

Everybody called him the IT guy.

In the group you had your mundane name, your group identity, and the nickname everybody called you.

Usually you didn’t know the nickname everybody else called you, at some point around the group something stuck and that was that.

I didn’t know my nickname, I gave up trying to find out, still secretly hoping it was something inspiring.

IT guy was talking about some books and was curious about my thoughts on them, as I tended to see things differently in the group. IT guy always found it strange that I spent the last decade of my life learning how not to think, only to join a group that not only prized but demanded thinking.

I told him I hadn’t read those books yet and he was surprised.

D. had them now, and once he was done with them I should read them next.

Now I had a set of names, which made guessing what was wrapped up under that hanger I picked up for D. more specific.

Why wouldn’t he tell me?

After the meeting I offered to walk Beth home since we were leaving at the same time and heading in the same direction which seemed to happen more and more after these meetings when I wasn’t leaving with D.

She was enthusiastic about the gallery, chatty about the pictures, most of it I didn’t understand but was happy to listen.

I could ask her.

Not in her capacity as an office in the group, but as a friend of D.

Did I like the idea of asking her as a way to spy on my friend?

We playfully argued over who would walk who to their door, and I won out, which gave me a few more minutes to consider.

She knew.

She was waiting me to ask about something.

She would have told me if I asked.