He called it the observer effect... when you observe something, and it changes because you observed it…
~
Jane weaved through the crowded subway station with her phone clenched in her fist, lighting up the screen to steal glances at the battery display. 10%. 9%. She was expecting a call--a call that would validate her tireless efforts, give meaning to all the sacrifices she had made: her marriage and so many missed moments from her son's first steps to countless first days of school, her mother-in-law's funeral--7%.
She arrived at the platform for the uptown 4. No train. She'd been running in The Battery (the irony was not lost on her) on the southern tip of Manhattan, attempting to channel her nervous excitement into a few hundred calories burned when she remembered that it was her day to pick up Leo from school, and she was late again. The last time this happened was strike two, and the principal had called her and her husband in to ask if everything was "okay at home," to which Saiid said, "Everything's okay at my home."
Their separation was still a fresh wound, loosely stitched together by sporadic sessions with a highly recommended (and highly priced) counselor, forced family movie nights, and increased work/video game consumption for Jane and Saiid, respectively.
Saiid proposed the separation six months ago, two years after Jane had been hired as a designer for Beaulieu, her dream job--at which, any moment now, she would receive the call to be offered the position as lead designer for their most high-profile contract, the largest tour ever mounted by one of the most famous pop singers of their generation--the contract that would make her name in fashion history--
5%. Still no train. Still no call.
Though Jane often explained the dissolution of her marriage to her colleague-friends by saying something along the lines of: He just can't support me and my work, or, He is jealous of my success, or perhaps most accurately, You know me, I'm married to my work... But deep down, she knew the truth that despite her famous attention to detail, somewhere along the line, she stopped seeing her husband, noticing the small moments of joy they used to share together, and he stopped noticing her.
3%. "Fuck!" she cried, attracting glances throughout the station. She turned sharply, feeling eyes on the back of her neck, prepared to return the collective stare. By then, each set of eyes had lowered, shifted away, or past her. All except for one: a woman wrapped in worn blankets, sitting on the ground and rocking gently.
The woman appeared catatonic, staring with striking auburn eyes at Jane and through her at the same time, gazing nowhere and somehow everywhere at once. Her complexion was pale and freckled, hair greying at the roots. Beside the woman was a Styrofoam cup half-empty with change. Hoping to shake off the woman's unsettling stare, Jane fished in her purse, retrieved a jingling of coins, and dropped them in her cup. At that moment, the woman whispered in her ear, "You drain the battery every time you check for the call."
~