I must get lost in inspiration… because he was inspiring and I was taken. I felt the need to keep him in view and let the colour of the world bleed beside me like the blur of an oncoming car, recognized then forgotten. I could sit there consumed in patience, and when he spoke I would listen. Though, if he never did speak again, I would have been content listening to the way his shifted weight reset the chair beneath him.
I still think back to the night we met and I cannot quite grasp why he was there, or why he approached me. Maybe it was the laws of emotional physics that force those who are lonely to embrace another’s loneliness. So, from across the room he came, confident in the fact that I had no one to talk to. It took me less than a second to figure out that he was a fresh face, so I allowed him to ask me question after question. At each pause an appropriate nod, yes, or smile was inserted. We were having a conversation.
They say misery does love company, so maybe it was merely the atmosphere of dingy black lights and unfamiliarity that brought us together. A connection rooting from a mutual desire to be anywhere but there.
I shocked myself when I asked him to come home with me. He shocked me more when he said he would. We walked together in the snow, along the sidewalk leading to my basement apartment. He didn’t wear a coat, and I thought he could have been freezing. But the expression on his face seemed to imply he didn’t mind. I remember I was wearing a red rain coat, with the hood over my head and brown curls falling down either side of my face. My hair was brown and long in February. I thought I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. I felt at home in the snow on College Avenue.
We lay in my bed, with the lamp on nightstand switched on. I remember how cold my room was during the winter, but can’t recall feeling cold that evening. We talked about ourselves, each sharing pieces of the past and future. He talked about what he cared about, he talked about his grandfather. I thought that was lovely, a boy sharing something personal. He looked like he might cry, and I thought that was pure.
He had a tattoo of a finch on the inside of his right arm. He wore glasses, ones that looked like they belonged on the face of an aged man, but they fit perfectly on his. He told me about his passion for writing and photography. At the time he was working on portraits. I told him I was into landscape, and he was interested in seeing some of my work. I was interested in him, though I only know this now.
I can quite put my finger on what may have initiated our first kiss. It didn’t last long though; I knew I didn’t want to be the girl making out with a stranger in my bed. Yet, I had invited him- a contradiction I never grasped. He fell asleep in his jeans, and I on his chest.
We spent the next few weeks with one another. Our nights were filled with dinners, shows, red wine and scrabble. Our walk through the icy forest was our last encounter.
I often find myself looking back on that afternoon and wondering what I could have possibly said or done to have caused him to feel he had had enough. At this point, I was beginning to understand that this was a person I would have liked to spend my nights with for much longer than a few weeks. I was under the impression he felt that way for me. So when he texted me the next day explaining why we would no longer be seeing one another, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for a long time. I cried harder because I didn’t understand his explanations. There were many, and each one wasn’t a logical reason for not wanting to be with someone. As difficult as it was, I avoided asking why and said that I understood (no I did not) and acted much more mature than I felt necessary. He appreciated that, and hated him for it. He said we could still be friends we would get a coffee sometime soon. I knew that we couldn’t and we wouldn’t.
I thought back to the night we had first met, and how two options presented me. I debated over going downtown to join my friend at her boyfriend’s birthday, but I had chosen the party on College Avenue. I cried about not choosing downtown. I wished I had not met him, wished with everything I had that he had not made a place in my life. That was when I realized I was heartbroken.
I never realized it until then. Through all those weeks I was under the impression that he was the one consumed with me, and yet here I was – defeated.
My hair is short and blonde now, it is July. It took me five months to write this, five months to heal. I look back on this relationship and one line continues to resurface. A few months ago, I was looking back and trying to pinpoint the signs of a failing relationship that I missed. I still can’t. But I do realize now, that I was always scared, timid and silent. I want to stress silent. And I can present our relationship with one line; I think it may actually even do somewhat of a good job explaining its failure too.
*He filled the spaces with prompts that I do not take for I feared he would recognize all that I lack.
This is more for me than anyone else. Lengthy, I know.