To Get to We

The first time we met I told you I was very forgetful. To prove myself, I left that notebook behind. Good thing you remembered that and thanks to you I got my notes back and all that was inside those pages. Good thing, too, you were not curious and nosy back then; otherwise you would have learned that that was actually not the first time we had met, that we were not and would never be in the same place. That first time you met me, to be more accurate, I was having a hell of a day, as far as I can remember. It is not easy to drive a body like mine around town without catching someone’s eye or, to be more clear, without catching someone eyeing me out. The number of bumps that morning had been more than average. The looks on the bus more terrifying, and no one was forced to finally have to put up with my presence as a bus-seat partner, which left me isolated like a huge island, moving around its jelly-like mountains with every swerve of the bus. That first time you met me, I didn’t wish for you to actually meet me, but I did need to meet you.

I have never been good with first impressions. When I was born, my father says, the doctor took such a surprise because of my looks, it took him a while to make me cry. Yes; because, obviously I would not cry on my own. I believe his stories as much as I believe he has a good sense of humor. Maybe the truth is that I was just very slow to react. I have and will always be that way: slow and unnoticeable. Maybe I am lying and the latter has changed a bit in the last couple of years. It is becoming harder and harder not to notice me. Although people don’t seem to think about it, I do notice their “glances”, only that I make it seem like I don’t. You know; to make all our lives easier. That morning I meant to be unnoticeable, I’m sorry it didn’t turn out that way for either of us. The sign was there, bare and visible in the middle of the coffee shop. I shouldn’t have run to catch the bus only for that miser bag of groceries, but, as you already know, that had already been a hell of a day.

What did you see in me that I can’t see even now? Why did you have to fall for me? You were the only one to do anything for me. We both ended on the floor. I, completely embarrassed; you, crashed by 170 pounds of pure “womanhood”, as you called it. That you were sorry you didn’t put up more signs after mopping, you said. That the coffee shop was really busy and you were in a rush. I remember mumbling something unintelligible and your smiling afterwards. I remember that just then I understood what it meant to be in love.

Dim Light

I eat until it doesn’t feel right anymore and let the feeling linger for a while. I read your messages over and over again. I try to imagine how it would be to live your life, no matter how much I understand that my experiences are crucial to who I am. I envy you in a weird, not distorting way. Happiness is a maze to me: you never actually realize you are trapped in a never ending quest for something that doesn’t actually exists. I lie on the floor and look up at a starless ceiling and try not to think of anything important, and just waste away time. Waiting for myself to come back around. Most of the time I’m lonely, and the rest, I’m alone. I find it ironic that I didn’t think of you as a friend up until the very end. It was as surprising as finding out that peanuts aren’t nuts but legumes. It didn’t really change anything, but it felt good to know it was and had been like that all along. It made so many things more reasonable.

You know, this isn’t quite as it was supposed to be. It doesn’t feel right. I try to get out of this hole but every attempt just drags me deeper and deeper, darker each time. It doesn’t make any sense at all. There is no reason why I should be depressed. Silently and secretly, I admire you both as a person and as a man, but I won’t let you take part of either of them. My room grows around myself and I wonder at its magnificence from this new point of view. I pull myself under the bed. I feel calm and protected, and close my eyes. I breathe in the still air from the many weeks of hidden untidiness, enjoying the feeling of the dust clogging up my nostrils. It is a particular smell. I sneeze several times and concentrate on the pain and the irritation in my nose. I try to fall asleep, but you wander again into my thoughts and all hope is lost. I turn around to lie on my stomach, as I hit the pie I had left half-eaten; the filling causing a mess all over the carpet and covering all of my left scalp. I moan a low and soft moan. Negative thoughts infest my head, and just as swiftly go away.

I am weary and heavy. Every movement takes an excessive amount of effort and drains away any willingness to act or react. I do not as much blame you as I reproach you for leaving us, but you had to go. I wonder if this has anything to do with you. I wonder if you think about me. You said you were my friend, yet, you are not here for me. I can hear my mother going up the stairs, maybe to check up on me since she’s been out all afternoon. In my head, I make up an excuse for the pie, and run the scene in my head to test its credibility. It does. I slowly, but decidedly drag myself to the chair and am seated, ready to put on my best smile. My mother stops at the door and sighs a deep, quiet sigh. She, is also trying hard.