I remember that deep, searing tired that caused me to text you that night. "I don't think this is working."
It wasn't. It hadn't been for over a year. But this was the first time I'd confessed it to you.
We'd fought earlier in the evening. It's funny now, looking back and seeing that so many of our fights had begun only because we both wanted to spend time together, neither one willing to sacrifice our respective plans. We were too alike in that way- too stubborn.
You were playing Mafia with a group of friends who were practically strangers to me; I had gone out with the intention of seeing a movie at the film festival then gone back home, too depressed to see the effort through.
You called, of course. If you've dated someone for three and a half years and she sends a text like that, you have to call.
"Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'll come over for breakfast."
I could hear voices in the background. I said okay. It took a good while before I could sufficiently smother my thoughts- namely, that if someone I cared about had been crying on the phone, I would have dropped whatever I was doing to head over, not say 'we'll talk tomorrow'- and finally succumb to sleep, which is never a cure for this sort of exhaustion, but at least it's a temporary respite.
~
That morning you came in, we went through the awkward small talk and fidgetings and I was making coffee when you said-
"So...about last night?" You were wearing your unhappy smile on your face. I always hated that smile, it was so painfully endearing- even in the midst of discomfort and unhappiness your first coping strategy was to try to smile.
"What exactly do you mean by 'it's not working?'"
"...I don't know." I wouldn't look at you but I could see you anyway, sitting at the kitchen table, your face turned earnestly toward me. "I mean, I don't know. Isn't that a straightforward thing to say?" I turned finally.
"Come here."
I walked over hesitantly. I didn't want this conversation to exist. I didn't understand- I still don't- how two people can try so hard to make a relationship worthwhile and yet consistently fail at it. Somehow, somewhere we'd begun that long, imperceptible descent into making someone you love something else, something it isn't possible to be.
"Hey." You pulled me straight into your lap, and you just held me there. And it was the first time in a long time- and maybe the last time- that we weren't making each other into something else.
I don't know how long we sat there, probably looking like total idiots at the kitchen table, letting our coffee get cold. I do know that we broke up about six months later.
With time between us and what happened, I can see that still frame, not the hurtful things said and done six months ahead, as the truth: two people, young enough to believe that the sheer strength of our want could save the world.
Maybe if we'd stayed there, you in the chair, and me in your lap, we'd have been folklore. Hundreds of years from now, the critics would discuss- "We've just unearthed another artifact- it's a sculpture, sort of eerie and haunting and timeless. We're calling it Boy and Girl: Impasse."
It wasn't. It hadn't been for over a year. But this was the first time I'd confessed it to you.
We'd fought earlier in the evening. It's funny now, looking back and seeing that so many of our fights had begun only because we both wanted to spend time together, neither one willing to sacrifice our respective plans. We were too alike in that way- too stubborn.
You were playing Mafia with a group of friends who were practically strangers to me; I had gone out with the intention of seeing a movie at the film festival then gone back home, too depressed to see the effort through.
You called, of course. If you've dated someone for three and a half years and she sends a text like that, you have to call.
"Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'll come over for breakfast."
I could hear voices in the background. I said okay. It took a good while before I could sufficiently smother my thoughts- namely, that if someone I cared about had been crying on the phone, I would have dropped whatever I was doing to head over, not say 'we'll talk tomorrow'- and finally succumb to sleep, which is never a cure for this sort of exhaustion, but at least it's a temporary respite.
~
That morning you came in, we went through the awkward small talk and fidgetings and I was making coffee when you said-
"So...about last night?" You were wearing your unhappy smile on your face. I always hated that smile, it was so painfully endearing- even in the midst of discomfort and unhappiness your first coping strategy was to try to smile.
"What exactly do you mean by 'it's not working?'"
"...I don't know." I wouldn't look at you but I could see you anyway, sitting at the kitchen table, your face turned earnestly toward me. "I mean, I don't know. Isn't that a straightforward thing to say?" I turned finally.
"Come here."
I walked over hesitantly. I didn't want this conversation to exist. I didn't understand- I still don't- how two people can try so hard to make a relationship worthwhile and yet consistently fail at it. Somehow, somewhere we'd begun that long, imperceptible descent into making someone you love something else, something it isn't possible to be.
"Hey." You pulled me straight into your lap, and you just held me there. And it was the first time in a long time- and maybe the last time- that we weren't making each other into something else.
I don't know how long we sat there, probably looking like total idiots at the kitchen table, letting our coffee get cold. I do know that we broke up about six months later.
With time between us and what happened, I can see that still frame, not the hurtful things said and done six months ahead, as the truth: two people, young enough to believe that the sheer strength of our want could save the world.
Maybe if we'd stayed there, you in the chair, and me in your lap, we'd have been folklore. Hundreds of years from now, the critics would discuss- "We've just unearthed another artifact- it's a sculpture, sort of eerie and haunting and timeless. We're calling it Boy and Girl: Impasse."