Sleeping In

(Also posted at IndieInk, July 2011.)


I lingered in bed this morning because of the holiday. I reflexively reached my hand across to the other side, forgetting that you're not there anymore. Remember all the hours we spent here? Do you think about it at all? For me, on days like this, it's like you never left. Your ghost lingers -- the ghost of us lingers. It haunts me.

I was never entirely sure that I loved you until the day you left. I suspected, but I was never certain until that instant. Maybe it's because I only really love things that are too broken to salvage, like the furniture I insist on rescuing from my neighbors' trash or the ratty old sweater that my mom wore when I was a kid. I see the most beauty in the imperfections and the history that they represent. And so, only when I had a complete historical narrative of our past and present and future could I see that it was, indeed, love.

It's more than that, though: I only knew that I loved you when I knew that it would never be. I only love the unattainable, the mysterious, the forbidden. I don't like realities -- the Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, the rote, the routine, the mundane. I like the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, the late nights and late mornings and the lazy afternoons, the departure from the norm and the potential for the unexpected. And so, I love the holidays. I just loved them a little bit more when you were here too.

Running away

I pretended that I was asleep until I heard the sound of your key in the lock. As soon as the coast was clear, I got up from the bed, walked into the closet, grabbed my backpack, and started putting all of my clothes in it. I didn't have much at the time, but still, there wasn't a lot of room in the bag. So I went to the kitchen and grabbed a grocery bag. I put as much stuff in it as I could fit.

With every echo, every noise, I had to catch my breath, waiting for you to storm back into the house, to ask what I was doing. But you didn't, and I was in the clear.

It felt like an eternity, but I was finished packing within 10 minutes. I thought about making the bed, the way you always had me do it every morning before we left the house, despite the fact that I always argued that it was wasted effort. "Fuck it," I thought, and left it exactly the way it was.

I grabbed my car keys and headed to the door, not entirely certain of where I would be going next, or whether you would try to come after me. I wasn't sure you cared enough to follow, but I was entirely sure that you'd be angry. I still hated making you angry. I shuddered at the thought.

I locked the door from the inside, pulled it shut, and left. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I knew I'd be okay.

Dear Narcissus

You keep saying you love me. Tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night. I know the truth.

You don't love me; you don't even know me. You love it when I do and say the things you like. You love it when I provide a sounding board for your thoughts, your ideas, your philosophies. But you get frustrated when I don't do those things. I am neither a puppet nor an echo chamber. If you loved me, you'd like it when I disagreed with you or did something unexpected. But you don't and that's why this is not love.

If it was love, I'd feel better about the sacrifices I've made for you -- if it was love, they wouldn't feel so much like sacrifices. If it was love, I'd feel supported, not suppressed. If it was love, I'd feel like we were partners or equals. If it was love, it wouldn't feel so much like a one-way street.

If it was love, I'd be searching for a reason to stay and not looking for a reason to leave.

So I repeat: You keep saying you love me. But it's not love.

What you love is the way I make you feel. What you love is the reflection of yourself that you see in my eyes. That's not love -- that's narcissism.

If it was love, you'd let me go.

Little Lies

He grabbed one of my braids in his hand. "With your hair like this," he said, "You look like Pocahontas. Especially since you're so tan."

"Well you know," I retorted, "The Jews and the Native Americans are very close. Practically cousins."

He looked at me quizzically. "Really?"

"No. Not even close. Did you really think I was serious?" I laughed. "Just about the only thing they have in common is that they both tend to vote Democrat."

He pulled me closer. "I would have believed you. I believe most things you say."

"You shouldn't. It's all bullshit. Most everything people say is utter bullshit. And lawyers? We're professional bullshit artists."

"Not you." He touched my face. "Your face is so honest. I trust you."

At that moment, I almost warned him. "Don't believe me, not a word. Nothing I say is true. It's all a lie. Run away before you get hurt." But I kept my mouth shut.

Sometimes silence is the only truth.

The Games We Play

After all these years, I see your name on my caller-ID, and I still don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Do I want it to be you on the line; the same voice it's always been; the same words that weren't enough then and are even less now? Do I want to give up this endless game of cat-and-mouse? Do I want to stop being pursued and for once -- maybe -- just let you win? Or do I want it to end once-and-for-all and just let you fade into oblivion like those who came after you?

The truth is obvious, at least to me. I have a soft spot for you, for this game that we keep playing. It's a chink in my armor. Maybe it's because you knew me before the armor was built. But really, I think it's because the armor was built because of you. And that maybe I designed it with a lock that only fits your key -- yet still, you can't figure out how to open it. But that's because you've always been a blunt instrument, and I've always been a complicated puzzle. That is our greatest tragedy.