A Glass Half Empty

      She said I had nice veins.  I thought this a strange compliment until she began to describe for me the ways in which she would like to kill herself.  None were more gruesome than the others.  They were all simple and straightforward; not celebrations of death, merely quick and effective means of ending a life filled with suffering and boredom.  She spoke of her impending suicide as a matter of fact, as something to be done, the way one would normally talk of grocery shopping or laundry.  There was neither fear nor excitement nor sadness in her voice or eyes, only a steady calmness that indicated that she had put much thought into her future.
      We sat facing each other on oversized couches with splintered wooden backings.  A dusty, beige fan spun slowly overhead, gently pushing warm air around the small, windowless foyer.  Bright sunlight came streaming in through the open doorway, bounced off a small section of floor and flooded the room with a warm glow.  Two glasses of tea, one half empty, sat steaming on an antique, lacquered coffee table in front of us.  Alongside the tea laid two sweet rolls, each with a drop of chocolate hidden inside, both as of yet untouched.  The sounds of children playing rolled in through the doorway in waves.  The only other noise was the subtle whirring of the slow moving fan.
      What does one say in a situation like this?  How can one even begin to address the myriad complexities inherent to human life?  Can we talk off of ledges those who truly intend to jump?  Convince them through sound analysis and persuasive argument?  Or can we merely act as sounding boards, echoing back their sentiments and allowing them the space to sound out their thoughts and feelings; their reasons and regrets; their inhibitions, desires, passions, and hatreds?  These things they have thought about time and time again, do they sound different when reflected back by another soul?  Do meanings change?  Do murky waters become clear?  Is there something inherent in listening, in empathy, that can provide context to a given situation?  Are vibrations in the air distorted by contact with human life such that when they return to the speaker they have taken on a new tone and the ear hears them in a new light?  Perhaps simply the company of another, the knowledge that we are not alone can, in and of itself, change our perception.  The words, the reasons, the meanings, the vibrations, the context: perhaps it is not these that are important, but merely the presence of another.  Could sitting in silence change the course of history?
      Our time together had ended just as the foyer opened up to a deluge of sweaty, smiling children.  Laughter and yelling rang out through the hollow building, assaulting the eardrums in a way that was at the same time enjoyable and disagreeable.  The girl rose to leave and prepare for the next activity.  I looked up at her with as soft a smile as I could manage and I could see my efforts reflected back faintly in her young face.  As she walked away, I let out an inaudible sigh and rested my head in my hands, elbows on knees, eyes closed.  I sat like this for a long moment, thinking nothing.  When I opened my eyes again, I could see only the remnants of our shared snack sitting still and lifeless on the ancient coffee table: shredded bits of napkin scattered about like fallen snow from winter’s first freeze; a few torn chunks of sweet roll, picked apart and surrounded by tiny bits of crust; and standing tall and straight amidst all the crumbs and pieces of tissue, two glasses of tea, one half full.