Looking back, it seems odd that we should have been there. The morning was fresh, like us, and I couldn’t help but feel that we were on the cusp of something different. The truth of the matter was that you always stayed the same. You were constant. It seemed superfluous that after all this time we continued to stumble through formalities. It seemed awkward, like a first-day roll call.
“How was the interview?” I asked.
You seemed hesitant to answer. I took the opportunity to notice your ever-changing, ever-constant appearance. Your thin white tee shirt had some light brown stains around the collar. It didn’t seem to phase you, and it didn’t seem to matter that it should have been different around me. Things like that always annoyed the hell out of me. I was in hate with your nonchalance.
“It was fine. Quick. I think they liked me, but I won’t know anything until tomorrow.”
“Did they sound like they could offer you some decent hours?”
We had taken a shower together that morning. I let the hot water beat against my face and ignored the sting. You just stood there, as if observing. I could see you shivering out of the corner of my eye. I had the right to be selfish. You didn’t raise a protest, but I could tell you sensed my new posture. We were always naked to each other, and yet we were so blind to the intricacies of our own downfall.
“I guess so,” you said.
“You guess so? Did they not elaborate? What’s with you and your one word answers?”
You stared hard out the window and toward the street, as if projecting yourself away from here and now. I knew you hated when I prodded you. I felt like a mother scolding her child. I felt so responsible for you. I tried to believe that you were fragile. You turned your gaze back to the dark brown liquid before you and made horizontal lines in the sugar that I spilled onto the table.
“I told them that I would take as many hours as they’d let me have. I told them this was a good opportunity while I wait for you.”
I knew you had to have seen me touch the stack of bills on the side table as we shuffled out of the bathroom. I wanted you to believe it was a subconscious gesture. I couldn’t tell you the truth. I couldn’t stand to see you trembling. I needed you to leave.
I always craved either the pull of your absence or the pain of your presence.
“Wait for me? That was a convenient excuse wasn’t it?”
I watched the muscles in your neck strain and release, like a sort of dance. I loved these moments. I loved your reaction. I needed it. It was all we had, really. Everything else had seemed to dissipate before our eyes. It might’ve happened last week. Maybe it was last year. I knew this was your brick wall moment. I knew I had to push this to its boiling point. That was my role. You gave it to me.
“It must be nice. What’s it like having no responsibility, not having a real fucking job? You can’t take anything seriously. Are you capable of being serious? Are you even listening to me? I know you’re doing it right now. Putting up that goddamn wall of yours. How the fuck are you going to mooch off of me forever and think I’ll just let it happen? Do you honestly think I want to take you with me to California with how things are between us? I really don’t know why I waste my fucking time.”
We have played it out perfectly, just the way we know how. I slide the creamer to the edge of the table and you lean back in your chair. The silence takes its place just as we knew it would. This is tomorrow, the next day. This is last week. This is a year ago, and we’re so certain of the uncertain.
No comments:
Post a Comment