grey / graphite
When I open the door you look like you’re surprised to see me, even though you rang the doorbell. I smile to myself, wondering how that’s even possible. You brought wine, and I find it funny that it’s a white when you should clearly know I don’t particularly like it. I guess old habits die hard.
Come in, I say and follow you into the living room. I’m always weirdly nervous the first few minutes, as if it’s the first time we meet although we’ve met about a hundred times by now. Is that a bad sign? I don’t know, and I forget as soon as I think it. And then the nervousness passes like it always does, and we’re old friends again, sitting opposite of each other in this giant couch. The only notable difference being we’re on a date now. I’m not sure how that changes anything, but I can feel that it has. Suddenly, the things we once shared openly is part of an elegant dance of avoiding subjects, and we are blatantly flirting in all the places where we once hid the desire to. It’s oddly liberating, and awkward at the same time.
We spend the night getting reacquainted, and it feels like watching a movie for the third time suddenly seeing hidden messages in the silence between conversation. There are many things I realize I haven’t even thought to ask, and it was all for the sake of protecting our frail hearts from exposure to this possibility, so afraid it might not end well. Do you want a drink, I say when you look like you’re about to decide if you should be leaving. You ask what’s on the menu, and I rummage around in the cabinets trying to find a plausible end result. Cuba libre! I exclaim happily when I find a lime in the depths of my fridge. How exotic, you say sarcastically with a raised brow.
As I gather the impressive list of ingredients, I remember my Cuban playlist and press play. I pretend to salsa with the bottle of rum pressed against my chest, and you look at me like I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Dance with me, I offer you my hand and pull you up from the couch as you accept. Our clumsy merengue will win no first prizes, as we wrestle through which one of us is in lead. I finally twirl out from our dance, grabbing a lime and splitting it in half with a graceful move and I turn around expecting to have humored you. But your face is suddenly clouded by thoughts of something else. What?
It’s always a surprise to me when we move from love to disdain, how quickly emotions can be flipped through as if it was a sketch book of running stick figures. Running, running, running, tripping, falling, falling, down. I didn’t see it coming, but once again I am confronted with a thought that had escaped me, a blatant disregard of human emotion on my part. As you share your feelings, I can feel my brain overheating, an annoyance of being misunderstood. How can it be that we have shared the same experiences, but in two different worlds? How can I have misinterpreted everything so wildly that it ended up doing the opposite of what I expected it to? I can’t help but express that, and as I do I can see the clouds on your face shifting to storms.
Your voice grew louder, and suddenly we find ourselves in a war of words, arguing who’s entitled to feel worse. I’m pressed into a corner, and when I feel like I can’t escape I shut myself down - I can hear myself inaudible, my face turns from animated to stone, closing off any attempt to jab, turning your loud words into muffled mutterings while I disappear into my head. It takes a few moments for you to realize I’ve left and when you do, you’re livid. You growl, you yell, you pull at my arm and you shake me by the shoulders. You pick up your glass of wine and throw it at the wall above my head, pieces shattering and drops of liquid showering my skin as I remain still like a statue. I’m watching you from behind my wall, trying to figure out how to tear it down but I’m stuck. I feel a sensation of panic as I realize you’re about to break into pieces, and I want to touch your hand, I want to calm the storm but I’m frozen. You stop and look at me with such sad eyes I’m afraid we’ll drown. Then you turn and walk out of the room, I can hear you put your jacket on and curse under your breath as you open the door and walk away. And I am relieved that you won’t have to stay.
I ring your doorbell and stare at the floor. The smallest part of me hoping you won't open it. I question why I'm here, why I can't stop coming back.
I'm bringing white wine as a joke and assume it will get lost on you.
You open the door and my heart beats faster. I'm surprised at how little emotion you show, you face is blank but you say all the right words. I wonder if you forgot we had plans tonight.
You invite me in and I walk through to the open livingroom. I feel you following me as I look for a place to sit, hoping wherever I choose, it's not your favourite spot. I don't know why this matters. I guess I don't want to disrupt whatever you need to be comfortable.
So I walk around looking and pointing at things on the walls until you choose where to sit first.
Within minutes, we've fallen into conversation. Words flow too quickly out of your mouth as if you've thrown away the filter. Some opinions seem more like opinions you want to have rather than feel, but there is something very real and familiar inside you. I can't put a label on it but I feel it too. Why don't we ever talk about that? Are we afraid we wouldn't survive it? Would it shatter the illusion or just kill the mood for a moment?
I'm beyond relieved when you disrupt my spiraling thought train by offering me a drink. Of course I want a drink. "What's on the menu?" I ask.
"Cuba Libre!" You exclaim as you rummage through your fridge. I'm surprised you manage to find a lime between the dozens of perfectly accounted for beverages lining the shelves.
I gladly welcome the opportunity to stop thinking now as you attempt to salsa with the bottle of rum. Cuban music fills the space around us and my heart swells. "Dance with me," you say as you offer me your hand.
We're unaware of ourselves as we dance around the room. You pull me closer and I willingly fall into to you. The room blurs as you spin me around and around. I'm dizzy now and losing my balance. I anticipate to feel your hands catch me but instead, I feel your nails dig into my back.
You spin gracefully away, seemingly unaware or unconcerned. You focus on splitting the lime as I stand there waiting to understand what just happened.
"Why did you do that?" I ask.
"Do what?" You reply, as you turn to face me with a confusing and proud smile.
"Why did you dig your nails down my back?"
"I didn't. You did that."
"What?" My voice is louder now with impatience. "What is happening?"
"I don't know. You're being ridiculous and accusing me of something I didn't do and it's hurtful."
It suddenly seems like there is a stranger in the room. Waves of anger and sympathy overwhelm me and I don't know which one is more appropriate to act on. I look at you, desperate to understand. I see my anger reflected in your eyes. "Talk to me!" I yell. But you've already left. You don't hear me anymore.
It wasn't me looking for an emergency exit, it was you, showing me the door. You never even gave me a chance.
