I met him on a day when I couldn’t care less. I had stayed up until 7:30 in the morning playing Scrabble and Scattergories and we were set to meet at 11:00. My smile was big from humoring my childhood for enough hours that I had stayed awake to the point of adult responsibilities and needing to move my car from the meter, in bright orange crocs that will never not be funny. I had this weird burner phone that I refused to save any numbers in to because I could barely figure out how to use it, how to navigate it; it was only temporary. For my .9 mile walk to meet him I was off the grid; no internet, no point of contact, no connection (which present Lindsay is now only seeing the irony). Despite my hangover, my lack of sleep, and the glassy red of my eyes that I wear as a scarlet letter after any night of keeping my vices warm, I walked in to the coffee shop and met a boy I had only sent gifs to on the internet. The time went quickly and soon we were standing awkwardly on the sidewalk and he was asking to see me again. And I wanted to. I fled the scene and the country shortly after. He checked in on me and it was sweet. He sent weird text messages and I blamed it on the time difference, the inevitable alcohol, the disconnect between two people who were not only living on opposite sides of the world, but just opposite in general.
I returned home and to the passenger seat of his car on a night he took me to dinner. If you know me well enough, you know that I think there are few things more precious than sharing a meal with someone. Not drinks. A meal. Putting something in to your body that nourishes you, that helps you grow, that sustains you, all in the company of someone who should do the same. And dinner was good and he didn’t flinch when my attention to detail had me folding a coaster over and over in to as many folds as it took to balance a table. And dinner was so good I found myself timing our run across the street against the changing stoplight patterns like a rousing round of double dutch. We sat in candlelight, on bar stools. He rested his hand on my thigh, and it resonated the way that those things do.
He asked to see me again. And I wanted to.
The sun came up and set twice over and on reunion day there was radio silence. As time is more precious than meals, I chose not to waste it. I peeled myself off the couch. I straightened my hair. I put on a dress that got me in to more trouble than I was ready for. I didn’t want to make any assumptions; I don’t believe in creating answers for questions just because you want them. I don’t believe in excuses either – though it turned out he had a good one. A plate of brussel sprouts and some silent sitting later and all seemed back on track – except for the things in the back of my mind.
Schedules got busy and I started giving my time to other people. My heart started to forget the way he looked at me, the music he showed me, the way it felt when someone touched your skin for the first time. When we spoke at the same time he didn’t stop and he never revisited my sentences. Each moment felt like a stumble, a caution, an awkward clench in my teeth behind closed lips.
I tried to talk about it over fried chicken – but I chickened out. Don’t think that this is lost on me.
But revelations are a real life thing. They happen in a second, or maybe it’s longer. Maybe it’s measured by words and it’s just a string of them in some pedestrian verse that happens at just the right time. Maybe it’s the loose ends I’ve left untied because I know that I will never trip on them. Maybe I am still trying to find empathy in my empty pockets.
But today I sat still. And I told you that I didn’t want this. And I put my hand on my thigh and it resonated, the way those things do.
the length of waves 