When You Can’t See the Strings

I choose my words carefully, but evidently, not nearly enough because every statement cheapens what we share. Not just this relationship, either, but every relationship I have been struggling with for the past three years. I am flippant. I play these hurts off like they were nothing, merely scratches that did nothing to mark the surface. Nothing that could wipe this sheepish grin off of my face. This is what he does to me. I haven’t seen him in years, even longer since we have properly talked and yet, everything falls back into place and I am seventeen again. I am perched on his lap in a crowded car late at night, again. Listening to Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Hands Down’ while he softly kisses my neck while no one notices, again. We are quietly singing the words and catching each others’ eye in the rear-view. We are C and L again. It’s a friendship that defined me, made me so much of what I am today, and one of the biggest setbacks, deepest hurts that I have survived emotionally. When he didn’t choose me. When our friendship was abandoned for what was a new relationship at the time. I try to understand. After all, since then, I’ve done the same. But, still, it is a thinly covered wound. Precarious and vulnerable to sudden change.

We are sitting side by side in the filling bar watching the open mic and sneaking snippets of conversation here and there over the singers voices; leaning close to hear.

“You are exactly the same.” He says it with a mischievous smile and I wonder for a second if he means it in a negative or positive way and more so, if I am the same or just the same with him. I decide to take it as a compliment and we fall back into our age-old banter peppered with suggestive comments and flirtatious turns in the conversation. It’s easy to navigate once you get the hang of it. I’m finding my stride and becoming more and more confident until what he says next throws me for a loop and I choke on my beer.

“Well, you know, we were never platonic friends, anyway.”

I sputter shooting Ricard’s Red all over the table and he laughs uproariously.

“What do you mean?! We were platonic friends for years!” I screech in his ear, indignant.

“Only because we had to be. You got a boyfriend so we were, but we were always supposed to be what we started out as in the beginning.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He laughs again and continues, “Not just platonic friends, better. Friends with benefits. No strings attached, you know.”

I know what he’s doing here. I can see what he’s putting back on the table but I hesitate not wanting to lose for the same reason what I finally regained. Not wanting to complicate the matter further. What if he ends up back together with her. The love of his life, I mean. Will he disappear again? All because of the next choice I make? Besides, we were great platonic friends and he knows it. But, he’s right. More was definitely better.

“I don’t know if that’s such a brilliant plan. What if you get back together with her and it turns out we’ve proven her right?”

He scowls for a second and I think I’ve hit a nerve but just as quickly the storm has passed, the sun is out, and he is smiling at me again.

“Hey. I’m single. You’re single. We can do whatever we want to do. Why not?”

I mull it over for a minute, returning my attention to the stage. A girl in a red Obama t-shirt and black-framed glasses is singing a song about heartbreak. They always seem to be singing about heartbreak. Maybe it’s time to simplify things. Take the heartbreak out of the equation. Spend time on the other bits, instead. But, I know myself now better than the girl he remembers and despite what he sees, how I play myself in his presence; I am different. He doesn’t fool me. What it comes down to, really, is that he’s just as lonely as I am. Just as torn open and confused. Looking for a warm body to fill the void with nothing attached: No baggage, no strings, no expectations… no problems. It’s a relationship we have mastered; a friendship we have perfected and far less risky then finding myself next door again. I finish the last of my beer and finally turn to look him in the eye.

“Want me to get you another one?”

“Sure.” I say, “why not?”

Why not, indeed.

Summer Run-Ins

Sunday afternoon and the commons is overflowing with softball players. I’m walking home from work basking in the almost-summer sun and remembering why I love this city with every helmet-clad rider that whips by in their support for Bike Week. I pause for a moment watching a game and think that the pitcher looks a lot like my ex, it’s too far away to tell for sure but definitely not. He doesn’t pitch. I smile and keep walking until a particular green Corolla–orange car freshener proudly hanging from the rear-view–stops me in my tracks . No. I’m in slow-motion, turning, yes it must be him. I walk closer and it seems obvious now: Tattoo around the wrist on his throwing arm, tattoo on his leg, and yep, that is definitely my brother’s high school grad t-shirt that is clinging to his chest with sweat. I should probably keep walking, but the hot sun and the scent of grass make me brave and a little reckless. Leaning against the bleachers in a poor excuse for casual nonchalance I stare at him from behind my over sized shades. It’s strange how you can think you’re completely over somebody, not at all attracted to them anymore, and then see them outside their usual element and be drawn back in again. He notices me out of the corner of his eye and I wave. I must make him nervous because he stops pitching quite as well, throwing a couple of balls and then allowing his batter to get a massive hit off of him. It pops up impossibly high into right field and I follow it with my eyes. His out-fielder saves his ass with a quick and almost careless out and they all trot in. I start to get a little antsy as he approaches, staring at my feet and tightening my grip on my purse strings. He mouths something at me and I pull out my earphones and cock my head.

“Sorry what was that?”

“I said, what are you doing here?” He smiles that smile I used to love and his rogue dimple makes a quick appearance and then disappears.

“Oh. I thought I’d watch for a bit if that’s ok with you…”

“Yeah! I mean, yeah. I’m pitching. How do you like that? Never done it before. They needed someone to fill in…so…”

I watch him ramble on, hands shoved in pockets, head to the side, bouncing on the balls of his feet. I’m about to say something I might regret; I can feel it tingling on the tip of my tongue. But, he is called for the batting line up and I am saved from myself.

“Hey!” He calls as he jogs away, “we should get ice cream after.”

Nodding I climb onto the bleachers, roll my jean legs up to my knees, and lean back on my wrists. Face to the sky. This summer was made for mistakes. Mistakes, regrets, and memories. The summer is just beginning and I already know how it is going to end, but, I am ok with that. I’m ok with it, now.

…And I Don’t Beg

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova – Falling Slowly

(If you never got a chance to see the movie Once a couple of years ago, you should do so now)

I can’t escape him. Not when he still lives next door. Not when he continues to reiterate a standing invitation. Not when I already made the mistake of falling asleep in his arms and allowing my body to remember how it felt to be held. Some nights this loneliness eats me up and I am sliding my phone open, slipping on my shoes, heading for the door. I never open it, though. Something always stays my hand. I close my phone, replace my shoes in a thoughtful line, stare into the dark wondering if it will be like this always. Or, if all I need is distance. Distance and time.

My heart is stretched in too many directions. For every hurt I cure there is a new rip that must be repaired. I push and I pull and I quell the storm and I give in and I overflow. The pressure in my chest builds and I want. I want so much.

You keep on saying how important it is to stay vulnerable. I want to trust you. But, who do I know who is vulnerable anymore? These days we are all about constructing walls, drawing lines, and creating boundaries. You are stripping down my defenses and I want to believe it will turn out ok. That there is safety here. But, when you tell me you adore me I can’t see your face. When you are talking about the future I am just staring at my ceiling alone in the dark.

Paint me a picture, yes. But, then pull a Mary Poppins, step into the chalk and make it come true. I’m begging you…

…and I don’t beg.

The Thing I Miss Most…

(via Holga)

Oh, also I tumble now too.

Navigating the Fire

Shards of blue fought through the overcast sky. Here and there a sunny patch might break out. But, despite its best efforts the sky was still gray and it threatened rain. I was exhilarated, finding beauty everywhere: in the artful composition of spilled litter, the down-trodden couple pushing their child in a shopping cart instead of a stroller, the peeling paint curling like petals wide-open to the sun. The city is vulnerable in the moments before rush hour. Its lacerations uncovered blistering pink then red then white sunrises in the skin.

There was a burn-victim who used to frequent the video store I worked at. The skin on the right half of his face was raised and bubbled, crisscrossed with scars and burns. I didn’t know where to look at first; my eyes felt like a weapon and I desperately didn’t want to be rude. So, I would sneak glances at him out of the corner of my eye as I rang him through until one day he caught me and held my gaze grinning. God, he was beautiful: the cracked pink of his lips, the glistening surface of healed flesh, the experience mapped out on his face for all to see. Not all of us have our wounds so clearly visible nor our past so impossible to hide. Not all of us would let a stranger pry into every hole and corner of our face only to come up empty handed and gasping. We were frozen there for several minutes–searching–and then just as quickly as the moment had occurred the intimacy was suddenly broken. Stammering and blushing I passed him his videos by the door and let him go. Afterward, he would visit sporadically cracking jokes and smiling flirtatiously. Often, I would give him his movies for free. He would always exit backwards–broad shoulders to the glass–waving the movies in salute. Then one day he stopped coming.

I quit soon after that.

Sometimes I do wish hearts could be pinned to your jacket and worn bravely on your sleeve. Then, we wouldn’t have to risk getting so close in order to see each other’s wounds. Without exchanging names, or email addresses, or late night phone calls we could map past heartbreaks and trace future intentions. We could turn back if the path looked dark and twisted. We could more fairly balance the good and bad–the right and wrong-without falling victim to cloudy judgments or personal bias… or love. We wouldn’t have to be vulnerable in our heart-pounding ignorance, because we could just look down on our sleeves and already know.

But, when it comes to relationships we don’t have clear signs. Signals are mixed and misinterpreted and lost in the shuffle. We are navigating blindly in the flames, eyes squeezed shut, hands looking for something to hold on to. Someone to lead us out of the fire.

Unfortunately, with all of the chaos, every once in awhile we get burned.