Your
Ex-Lover
Is
Dead
By: Chris Fox
Transcribed from: “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead” by Stars.
Off of the album: Set Yourself On Fire.
It was a normal day like any other; the night was what was so unique.
I woke up late that morning as usual. I was able to wake up late for two reasons, the first being my somewhat prominent position at the business firm I worked at. Frankly, there is nothing particularly special about the job, as with all other positions at similar establishments. All that my unique position entailed was that casual Mondays and casual Fridays were acceptable for me; that if I was frustrated with my cubicle (say, the cubicle wasn’t getting enough natural light (and they never do)), I could request a switch with another employee in the office; that if my coffee, originally thinking it was an American citizen of distant South American decent happened to check its family to suddenly find that it was Irish, nearby witnesses in the break room would turn a blind eye to such alcoholic discoveries, hiding their young Frappachino’s eyes.
The second reason, which justifies the hypothetical (AKA: true) scenarios aforementioned, is my superior. His name was Jeff Blankly, and he just so happened to be Jeff Blankly of North Illinois University. Jeff Blankly, NIU alumni, is not only a senior executive at the same business firm as myself, as well as my boss, but he is also the only man I know who was dared (in his heyday, of course) to chug an obscene amount of alcohol until his subsequent blackout. This was, of course, before he subsequently stopped breathing, subsequently leading to him flatlining, which (technically) subsequently led to his death. Jeff Blankly had no pulse for his entire ten minute ambulance ride to the hospital, and his friendly ambulance paramedics were sure he was destined for the morgue until a hacking cough threw freshly stomach acid warmed beer out of his mouth in a desperate gasp for air.
This illustrates a very vivid idea that seems to be difficult for many people to grasp for one reason or the next. The fact is, frankly, some of those in great positions of power over others aren’t always the most competent nor most qualified for their position. Jeff Blankly was a 27 year old alcoholic (you see now that he learned from his mistakes) who dropped out of college in his junior year. He forged a graduation diploma (by hand no less), but was unsuccessful in finding a job without his Bachelor's degree. Fortunately for him, Jeff Blankly happened to be the son of Tony Blankly, whom happened to be on the board of directors for my firm’s particular board of directors. Tony Blankly happened to be golf buddies with the CEO of the company. After winning an important tournament against a rival firm, at the following steak dinner, Mr. Tony Blankly mentioned his dear son, Jeff, was hard up for an internship; even though Jeff was “well qualified,” he was turned down in his attempts to procure a job. Obviously, and I do not doubt a healthy amount of wine was involved, the positively prudent CEO offered a one Jeff Blankly a position as a senior executive, upfront, no questions asked.
At the same time, there was an intern who I saw frequenting the elevators all the time. I don’t really know him – he’s one of those people you see all the time, and have even spoken to, but know nothing about. I think his name is Hando, or Handi, or Hindu, or something – he’s Indian in any case. Anyway, I happened upon him and another intern talking several months ago in the break room. Honolulu the Intern detailed his plan for the perfect new business. Now, I’m not going to detail his plan, partially because I can’t remember, partially because he deserves to tell others himself. Suffice it to say, the plan was very beautiful and utopian.
But I listened to him discussing the astounding plan that would apparently entirely revolutionize the structure of international business forever. “I promise, one day, I will finally work my way to the top, and I’ll change the world,” he said. Hakeem the Intern is paid next to nothing, and I think Jeff Blankly is about to fire the poor kid because he dropped Jeff’s lunch by accident sometime last week.
My point isn’t that Honda the Intern is the most capable and competent for the position he seeks. My point is that my senior executive, Jeff Blankly, did not properly earn his position, and that I believe that he does not have the skills or wherewithal to be employed (and paid) in the manner which he is. Of course, I would never say this to Jeff, because he is my boss and the senior executive.
Where do I rank on this hierarchy of profession? Right square in the middle. I used to be just like my dear almost-acquaintance Helium the Intern. I was just starting off, straight out of college, with high hopes and young dreams. But I saw I was going nowhere fast, and just before I bailed the intern position at my firm, I bumped into Jeff on the elevator. And of course, once I learned he was senior executive, I told my detailed and well-planned sob story until he decided to use his divine senior executive powers to save me via a promotion. I now have a corner cubicle and special privileges, so long as I continue to kindle the delicately balanced relationship that constitutes Jeff and I.
Did I procure my position wrongly? Am I being a total hypocrite? Am I the most qualified person for my own position? The answers are yes, yes, and yes. Someone else deserves this position, I know. But I am damn sure not about to give it up for them.
I walked into the office, late as usual. Yes, yes, random person walking out of the elevator next to me, with your cheap briefcase, I did just walk in. Yeah, that guy who I forcibly traded cubicles with, my tie is in disarray, and that’s acceptable dress code for me. Pff, glare all you want, lady with the papers - your husband is cheating on you. O dear gossip lady, gossip away! – this office requires more gabbing. Oh…
Come see me, dude. I wanna talk.
-Jeff
Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit! I should have known something like this would happen. I knew that one of Jeff’s naïve, juvenile problems would take the form of the ugly yellow post-it waiting on my computer screen like a thief in the night to steal all the damn enjoyment out of my day. Really effing typical.
This man is so obnoxious, Jeff. Damn you, Jeff! Why must you be so hapless – helpless – in solving your own trivial problems? Why must I be the personal therapist of Mr. Jeff Blankly? Why must I care about whatever pointless problems you have to put forth today? Why, Jeff, why? Don’t you know it’s Friday? I could be dreaming about some beautiful naked woman, or playing solitaire on the computer, or planning out tonight’s drinks which will no doubt result in my stupor and my future passing out in bed at four in the morning. In other words, Jeff, I could be planning my party for one tonight. But no, I’m walking across the office, past all the leering eyes, toward your corner office with the view. Jeff, please tell me what’s wrong, so I can go on with my life. Why, Jeff, why? Why must I deal with your insufferable ignorance?
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Dylan! Dude! Hey.”
Oh yeah, because I don’t want to lose what I have, no matter what.
It was a normal day, I suppose. But that night was unforgettable.
How the music shapes our infantile lives. How it shapes, and twists, and firmly molds us from the same living biblical clay. How silly poetry from a few talented musicians can change your entire day. Let me count the ways.
“I can’t explain / why it’s a sin, / the state I’m living in. / I just feel so tired.” Who would imagine anyone could garner any sort of meaning from a song called “Your Heart Is An Apple” by a band called The Arcade Fire? But here I am, and there it is.
I recently broke up with my boyfriend of one and a half years last weekend. It was quite immature actually; the whole situation really reminded me of high school. But to explain this situation in a way that will best illustrate how silly last Saturday was, I’ll have to get into a bit of history.
I am like any other girl: I’ve had my fair share of relationships. I have had some very good relationships. I have had some very, very, very bad relationships. But generally, I think I have had an average time with my dating. My last relationship falls under that lesser category.
His name was Allen. He was 25, one year younger than I. He had brown hair with hazel eyes, and was a web designer who worked from his apartment. He liked football, hockey, smoking cigarettes, traveling, and oddly enough, enjoyed a good dinner date. He was very formal when we went on dates – he held all the doors, pulled out all the chairs, always paid. The dates were nice.
The entire situation with Allen was a unique one in that he did not exactly go through the proper channels to meet me. The boyfriend before Allen was a guy named Joey, whom I had been dating for maybe three months. Joey and Allen were best friends. But Allen met me, and Joey met Christina. I have no idea where Joey met Christina, or where they really got acquainted – maybe at a nightclub when I was sick some weekend – I don’t know. But she was a pretty little 24 year old waitress who liked short skirts and, now I see, obviously, wooing boys who were previously committed.
Allen met me at Joey’s 26th birthday party. He fell for me instantly. He probably would have kept his newfound, instantaneously spawned, undying bout of affection for me a complete secret, had he not gotten wasted that night. In the end, he whispered to me near the host’s backyard trampoline, as the rest of the party-goers skinny dipped in the pool, about his desires to have me.
I do hope you haven’t already formed an opinion of me on account of Allen’s juvenile actions. I may not be particularly religious, but I have morals. I would never cheat on Joey. I was very happy with our relationship. We had opposing politics, conflicting schedules, and his music taste was awful. But opposites attract, right?
For this long story to make the most amount of sense possible, you’ll need to know about Drew. Four years before I was even aware Allen or Joey existed, I was dating Drew. I was nineteen, in college, studying fine arts. Drew was majoring in music and pursuing a minor in graphic design.
We shared a class together during that time. He was one of those boys who would flirt with you, but then would realize that they are self-conscious, and stop. Luckily for him, he was very attractive, and I picked up the flirtation where he left off. Two weeks later, I asked him out. I had never asked a boy out before, and was very proud and confident.
We had a wonderful relationship together. He knew my friends, and furthermore respected them and me. He would only get really drunk around midterms and finals, which was fine by me, and we were very passionate and romantic together. It was perfect. I mean to say, it was perfect until he got tired of me and cheated on me. I never knew the girl, so they must have met through his friends, who I wasn’t acquainted with. I was clueless until I caught them in coitus at a party, in a back bedroom, upstairs. Turns out he had been cheating on me since the second week of our relationship. Go figure.
That’s when I dropped out of arts school. I stopped dating entirely. I was sure every guy who flirted with me was already screwing someone else. I remained single until after my 24th birthday – four years. Then I met Joey.
Christina, whom I mentioned earlier, was a friend of a friend. She worked as a waitress at this restaurant Joey and I enjoyed. She flirted with him once in awhile as she served us, and I was suspicious of them, because it was still hard for me to trust anyone after Drew. Throughout the relationship with Joey, I refused to put out. At least full blown sex, anyway; I would excuse his occasional slip of the hand down certain denim articles of clothing I wore. We were very romantic though. He wanted sex, but I said no, and promised I just needed time, and I would trust him eventually.
Fast forward three months, Joey’s 26th birthday party. Allen is still drinking, and the skinny dippers have paired off, cuddling and petting each other in the warm pool water. I had consumed a fair amount of alcohol by this time, and my cheeks felt warm and fuzzy like an electric blanket. Next thing I know, Allen’s warm, wet lips met mine. We kissed for a good minute before he slipped his tongue in, touching the roof of my mouth. I say from experience, you have never felt more shocked at a party until your lips have collided with those of your significant other’s best friend, and he is about to drop the puck on the ice for a game of tonsil hockey.
I beg that you find my only reaction to end this as quickly as possible funny, because the rest of this sad song goes downhill like an uncontrollable avalanche. I pretended to burp. I would advise you never to pretend to burp if someone has their tongue in your mouth. I coughed and nearly gagged a lung out – had I had more to drink, I would have probably vomited in his mouth. Gross, I know, but hey, it makes me laugh some days.
I said I felt sick and needed some water, which wasn’t a lie. I went to the kitchen and downed two full cups of water while worrying over a cup of beer. I just cheated on my boyfriend, with his best friend, on his birthday no less. How does one explain that? I found someone’s wine bottle and drank the half that remained while two macho guys played “Freebird” by Lynard Skynard on Guitar Hero II. I let the colours on the television hypnotize me. I decided I had to tell Joey immediately.
I looked out the windows toward the backyard for Joey, but didn’t see him (I was afraid to go outside, assuming Allen would still be there). Not in the living room, or the kitchen, or the dining room, but his car was still outside. I went upstairs. I glided through the closed door at the end of the hall.
He was there, in the bed, Christina atop him. You know what they were doing. The room was pitch black except for the light that streamed upon the foot of the bed from the hallway. They didn’t notice me or the door – they continued unabated.
I couldn’t move – it was a complete shock. My legs refused to support me, and I slid with my back to the door until I reached the floor. I bawled, unable to do anything but watch them. I saw every feeling of pleasure in both of their bare bodies and heard every sound. They climaxed together with yells of sheer lust-filled ecstasy. They adjusted themselves, and laid exhausted on each other, tangled together like the sheets, gasping for air. I left.
I can’t say what happened next in detail, because the wine took hold of me like a dog on a leash. I only remember fragments. My mascara burned my eyes. One drink, two drinks… who knows how many more. Bushes surrounded me. I heard girls gossiping. Someone was petting me; they smelled like cigarettes. I threw a shoe into the night in anger. Somehow it was back on my foot. “I don’t have a ride.” His hand was firm. Laser light show. The hand again. I was crying, bawling, again, but on a couch in the dark. The man held me close and pet me. I made him turn on the TV, and the Sopranos was on. I watched it blankly and cried on his shoulder.
I slowly began sobering up. My senses flooded back, and I sensed I was topless, and the man’s hand – that firm hand – caressed my inner thigh, up my skirt.
I blanked out of reality, and awoke sometime later mid-sentence. I was significantly more sober now. I was definitely topless, those firm hands caressing me, my lips locked in a kiss. It was Allen. I wanted to tell him to stop, to wait, or at very least find my bra, but I let him feel me. My mind became more hazy. I felt him remove my underwear and part my legs. I finished before him, and he asked if it was alright for him to finish. I maneuvered him off me, wobbly stood, took off my skirt, and returned to him, on top, like Christina.
It was consensual, not rape, because as much as I couldn’t stop him, I wanted him. Not revenge or spite toward Joey – Allen just took care of me, and I needed to be taken care of. I never talked to Joey again, nor did Allen. We, Allen and I, started dating four days later. Then, last weekend, I caught Allen with some girl. He was holding her up by the legs against a wall, and she hadn’t even removed her skirt. He begged for forgiveness, but his pants weren’t zipped. I gave him my key to his apartment and left.
I am now living with my friends Laura, Amber, and Jamie. In the past twelve years, I have seriously dated five boys, and only the first, back when I was 14, didn’t cheat on me. “I just feel so tired.”
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Dylan, dude! Hey.”
And there Jeff sat, at his desk, in his office, as I entered. Jeff was a huge man, who looked more like a primate than a human. To represent analogically, if you saw him on any dark night, he would be the guy who you would imagine would not only mug you, but chew the meat off your bones. His shoulders are broad like an eighteen-wheeler, his arms very muscular naturally. He had a huge chest that could easily be used as a congo drum depending on where you hit him, and the little bit of brown hair on his head made his strong jawline shine most prominent on his visage.
Jeff’s office was the strangest I had ever seen in my life. And I’ve seen my fair share of offices. Sure, it has the contemporary black desk with matching bookshelves, but that was about the only typicality. A flat-screen plasma TV was in the largest section of the bookshelf, presently playing a bloody movie about Spartans. Instead of any books, the shelves were lined with college memorabilia – football helmets and jerseys, a signed football – as well as an entire collection of DVDs, and a terrible music collection.
Around the walls were banners for sports teams (mostly, again, from college), a Bears jersey that appeared to be autographed, and an ostentatious picture of a woman in her bathing suit, which looks like an enlarged copy of a picture from Sports Illustrated. All in all, it was very professional.
“You asked for me? Your note said you wanted to talk.” I sat in a large leather chair on my side of the desk.
“Yeah man,” Jeff began. “First about work. I know, dude, I know its lame, and I hate to talk about it because it’s just so damn dumb. But I have this guy above me – he’s this manager or something – and apparently he had this other dude who was looking around the office the other week. And he wrote all these random notes about some of the people, and their ‘discretions.’” He made quotation marks with his hands.
“Well,” he continued, “he wrote a crapload of notes about you, man. He said you were sleeping at your desk for like, two hours…”
“I was tired then,” I said bluntly and stupidly.
“And he also said you were smoking right in the bathroom.”
“I needed a smoke. You know how it is.” I pointed at the half-empty pack on his desk.
“I know, I know, dude,” he said sympathetically, reaching across from his desk and placing his goliath gorilla hand on my shoulder, patting me hard. I don’t know if I reminded him or he really needed a cigarette, but regardless, he took one out of a pack lying on his desk. He opened his desk drawer, found a lighter, and fumbled with it until he finally lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and stared at the middle distance before blowing the smoke out of his mouth.
“This is all just so stressful, dude,” he said, taking another long drag.
“What is so stressful?”
“This job, man,” another drag, “this life. This working every single day, dude. This waking up at like, six to get here on time. It’s just so stressful, man. Just so different from college.”
“I’m guessing you miss college, huh?” I purposefully glanced over at the memorabilia.
“So much, dude. Like, I see my friends a lot. You know the parties I go to these days. But I miss seeing them every day. I miss the inside jokes, and screwing with all the teachers, and all the fights in the dorms between classes, and the way everything and everybody was wild and raving right before a game, and how we would all get so pissed when we would lose, and try to find the other team’s cars so we could spray paint their windows… I miss that a lot.”
He took a heavy drag and moved the football, which I had not noticed on his desk, closer to him. This was typical Jeff Blankly. These manly men are stereotyped as not having any sort of feelings or emotions, but they do. These feelings just aren’t always for the opposite sex, like the stereotypical girl. For Jeff, these feelings are for playing football, and the friendships that spawned from that.
Jeff was a superstar with football. He got into NIU on a scholarship for his skill. He lavished in the fame he garnered from being the star quarterback. He was popular with complete strangers. Professional football analysts mentioned his name on television. He always had a woman to throw his gorilla arms around. He was the pinnacle of college popularity, and lavished in every second of it.
Since my sophomore year in college, I learned to distance myself from such brutish individuals, for physically, I’m of no similar comparison, and would often be drug into joining the larger friend’s physical confrontations because of my proximity to them. I’m sure you can see why I wouldn’t exactly enjoy these beefy men’s company; one or two knock-outs was enough to learn. I’m sure you can also see that this was a simple act of self-preservation on my part; keep strong people away, because you’re not strong. But I kept Jeff and his jolly company, half out of habit, half out of longing for similar popularity. Very ignorant of me, I grant, but I was twenty, and this was the sort of mature immaturity rampant these days in teens and adults alike.
I was not alone in my pursuit for pollination popularity due to my attachment to Jeff. There was a direct correlation between his rise in fame and the magnitude of his magnetism for others.
Unfortunately, Jeff’s other leeching acquaintances were not as honest or true for Jeff (I claim no sainthood in this remark, simply stating for my somewhat numerable discretions, I was more near to the positive side of the spectrum amongst the other fellow parasites Jeff knew). Jeff was surrounded by ignorant and indecent people, and he loved their presence. He let them influence his opinions and puppeteer his actions as if he were nothing more than a popular marionette. This led him to his accident, of course.
But being with Jeff led to a spike in my own popularity. People knew me – nobody important – but cool guys around campus would greet me by first name. I got the leftovers of the girls that Jeff didn’t want, which I had no complaint with, for these were beautiful women. I indulged in all I garnered from my symbiotic relationship with Jeff. I capitalized on this same outlook on life presently. I do what I can if it will put me in a more favourable position, consequences notwithstanding.
“It’s natural to miss that,” I say after a pause for (feigned) contemplation. “It was just such a big part of you only a few years ago.” Feed the hungry beast the sweet food he wants, and the beast will forget that you were prey to begin with.
“But everyone just keeps saying, like, ‘dude, it gets better, dude. You have a great job, and you don’t have to worry about this, that, and the other.’ But this whole growing up thing is just way depressing. I mean, dude! I’m 27.”
“You’re just getting bored, Jeff,” I said, picking up and quickly putting down a baseball shaped paperweight on his desk. “But they’re right – your friends – it will get better. It may not be as exciting as college was, but it is a different type of excitement. Have you thought about getting a girlfriend? Everyone’s getting married these days; maybe that will make things more interesting to you.”
Jeff looked longingly at his football helmet on the bookshelf, as if he knew well that he was cheating on the relationship he had with the pigskin. “Yeah… Actually, I have this chick who I met. She knows me from high school. Apparently she was my girlfriend, and we went to homecoming together. I don’t really remember… that was a long time ago… anyway, we’ve gone on a few dates and stuff, and she has these friends who throw a lot of good parties. Not like, wine tasting, or crap like that. Real parties!”
“That’s good. She seems interesting.” This will shut him up. Interesting is positive, and positive for Jeff means he is going to get laid.
“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right Dylan! Thanks, man. Don’t know how I would think without you. By the way, do you have a girlfriend?”
This was unexpected. “No, not right now. I’ve had a few, but not many since college. Lots of girls though, here and there, but not a serious relationship.”
“That’s cool – playing the field – that’s cool. Hey, actually, one of those parties that Candace – that girl I like – invited me to is tonight. Why don’t you come along?”
A party? I hadn’t thought about going to a party in quite some time. But why not, I thought, while looking upon the framed, fun filled group picture of Jeff and company that was propped up on the desk.
“Sure, I can tag along.”
“Awesome, dude! It’ll be a blast, promise. It’s going to be at a house of a friend of Candace’s. I’ve been there once. It’s really big and nice. A little to the west, but not far. I’ll print you out directions at lunch.”
I have now scratched the ears of a lion, and he purred. “Sounds like a plan, Jeff.”
“Sweet. See you later, Dylan.”
The remainder of the day passed without outstanding events of any worth. Thus, I’ll neglect to mention them, but I believe you’ll remember from the beginning of my tale, it was a normal day like any other; the night was what was so unique.
That Friday… oh, what a Friday. A bitter chill crept into the guest bedroom which I inhabited, as the temperature outside struggled to gain ground on its campaign against the winter air. The futile war of nature clashed harmoniously with the sounds of the morning talk show that filtered out of the radio alarm clock nearby. I awoke in due time, took my shower, did my makeup…
A knock came to the door as I threw on a white shirt. The person behind it opened the door without waiting for a reply. This is one of those subtle things I enjoyed about living with women: there is never any sort of bashfulness or shyness. Girls tend to be portrayed as timid, constantly covering up every inch of their skin to retain some sort of perfectionist modesty. And everyone knows a girl really has to trust a boy before said boy sees said girl without their clothes.
What some people – especially some boys – which is shocking at our age – don’t know about is what the secret fashion life of girls is like. The fact is, deep down, we don’t like dressing up. We’re every bit as lazy as our masculine counterparts. If we don’t have to leave the house, we would happily languor about the house on the couch in our underwear watching re-runs of America’s Next Top Model. Even if we had to leave, for whatever reason, half of the time, some sweatpants and a tank-top or t-shirt – no doubt our pajamas of the day – would usually suffice.
Amber entered the room – justifying what I just mentioned – wearing nothing but her underwear, and a second bra around her neck like one would wear a necklace. Granted, even this can make any girl uncomfortable. But Amber has been my best friend since high school. We’ve learned to get used to seeing each other without clothes.
“The weather sucks,” she said with a hair clip in her mouth as I slipped on some my black slacks. “It might rain or snow at any time today.”
“I haven’t even looked out of the window. Maybe I should just keep my eyes closed all day and look at nothing bad in the day.”
“Yeah, including the stop lights, but I don’t think your insurance agent would like that,” she quipped, approaching me by my full-length mirror. She turned me around, and while I put on my gold locket, she ran her hands through my freshly cleaned hair.
“Did you get this cut recently?”
“A couple weeks ago,” I replied, “It’s grown out a lot already.”
“It looks good.” Even though she is talking about my hair, I know she is also talking about me and my future. We did this quite often with each other; we would hide compliments in our casual conversation, hoping the other would notice. It was comforting when we caught it.
“So what are we doing tonight?” I asked.
“I had been planning on a cake baking festival, followed by three or four cheesy romance movies all night long. But Laura decided she and her girl-thing want to go out to eat. And you know what that means,” she suggested with a prod. Laura is gay, and her ‘girl-thing’ is this girl she prefers to keep around to casually hook up with, though they have never officially dated. It offers significant humour for the rest of us.
“That’s lame. What about Jamie?”
“She left early, but she mentioned that she was going to some party.”
“That’s no fair,” I replied half joking, half serious.
“But, Jamie says it’s a party that her friend from work is throwing. It's supposed to be stressless and fun. Free alcohol and food. Eh? Intrigued, my darling?” She perked up my collar for me and I felt her frozen fingers glint against my warm skin.
I haven’t been to a party since the night before I became Allen’s girlfriend. We weren’t interested in parties when we were dating – we preferred to be layabouts at home, yet I secretly longed to be social like that once more. I missed the controlled, confined chaos – the arranged, aggregated anarchy - of a party. I missed such a diverse palette of socialization And today, maybe – just maybe – I wanted to keep myself occupied so I wouldn’t be forced to introspect about failed relationships all the live long night.
“Sure, I can tag along. As long as you’re going.”
“I’m going if you are, so let’s do it.”
“Cool. I may have a lot of work, but I’ll put it off if I have to. It’s Friday, anyway. I deserve it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Amber said. “Just call me when you’re on your way home.” She buttoned the middle button of my shirt, which I had forgotten, as I turned to look upon myself in the mirror. “It’ll be fine, dear,” she said, her soft, light voice wafting to my ears only louder than a whisper. “Things will get better, I promise.”
Showers in a locked bathroom, after-midnight in front of the television, while I’m doing my make-up, while I do something simple at work; this is when I start to think, start to dream, and start to think back. I think back on my feelings, on the past, on the future. I find my thoughts drift into the beautiful emotions of wonderful yet sour taste.
I have so much to think of. As for relationships, obviously, when you have been cheated on in nearly all of your serious relationships, there are no shortages in concepts, doubts, worries, or emotions to ponder. I think back to my choice in careers, and how they changed so suddenly from what I loved to what was practical. I wondered how I ended up living with my friends, in their house, and have yet to find a home to call my own.
Thoughts ebb and flow as the traffic lights blink happily at me while driving to work. How these glowing commanders know me better than I know myself. Driving to work – to home, wherever that may be – to anywhere – is one of those unconscious things for me. It takes no thought; the same streets, the same onramps and exits. It’s something you learn and know without a second thought, like the wrinkles on your face or the memorized lines in a movie you have seen countless times. Because of this, I tend to drift deep into thought while driving, and the traffic lights know about me.
They see me everyday. They see my happiness, but they also see my sorrow. They leer at me under the porcelain sky as they illuminate areas proximate with their ominous red glow, searching deep within me. They know how I have been hurt, and how hurt I feel. But I’d rather not dwell on that, as I once more habitually drive to work today.
And the blinking lights ushered me to the drudgery of life. But as I mentioned, I believe, once prior, the day was normal, but the night was unforgettable.
Faster, faster, faster, I say! Not a moment to spare – not a moment to lose. Come, stoplight! You impede my progress. Flare your approving green light, for I have places to be. Do this now, or I’ll run past you, paying you absolutely no mind.
I was printing out a set of copies (and actually doing my job for once) earlier. I was thirsty, and went to the vending machine. As the aluminum can came crashing down, it all hit me. I am going to a party tonight. Why not get excited? I haven’t done anything so eventful in longer than I care to recall.
The rest of the day, I moved with a bounce in my step; with a smile to match my stride. Yes, yes, random person walking next to me, with your cheap briefcase, I am attending a social gathering this fine evening. Yeah, guy who I forcibly traded cubicles with, I am enthused by this odd turn of events. Pff, glare away, lady with the papers; right now I extend you an ever rare smile. O, gossip away, gossip lady – my attendance of this soirée will be seen as often as an eclipse.
Elevator, elevator, take me home, I thought, as I waited for the strong doors to slide back and let me leave this ever-boring office floor. Low and behold, as they shifted sideways, Haitian the Intern stood before me, the sole occupant of the elevator. I shuffled in, pushing the ground floor button.
“Hey,” he said quietly, with a wave as the doors close. On any other day I would have said hello and have been done with the conversation. But not today.
“Hey, how are you doing today?” The large stack of papers he carried in his hands shuffled. I don’t think he planned on my reply. He quickly regained his composure
“It was actually alright,” he said. “Your name is Dylan, right?”
“Yeah. What was your name again?”
“Harsha.” He held his papers awkwardly with one arm, and we shook hands.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around,” I said. The doors closed.
“Yep, I wander all over this building. That’s the fun part about being an intern. How was your day?”
“Very good. Actually, I’m going to a party tonight.” Maybe this is why I talked to him. Maybe I just wanted to brag.
“Very cool. Very lucky, too. I never have the time these days.”
“Yeah, I’m intrigued. I haven’t been to one in a long time. How about you? Any plans?”
“Oh, nothing special. I’ll just be seeing my girlfriend…”
Suddenly, the elevator shuddered to a worrisome stop. Harsha dropped a couple of papers to the floor. We both looked up to see what floor we’re on, but no lights were lit. After a few agonizing moments of silence and exchanged looks, I began to reach for the emergency phone. But with another shudder, the sleeping elevator awoke from its narcoleptsy.
“Anyway…” Harsha the Intern continued after a few moments, picking up his papers, “I’ll just be seeing my girlfriend. It should be fun.”
Ding, second floor. Harsha looked about the floor and stepped out. “Well, goodbye. Have fun at your party.”
“I will. You have fun too.”
“Thanks,” Harsha the Intern said as the heavy doors shut, and he bustled off to who knows where.
Faster, faster, faster, I say! I simply can not be late. Traffic, why today do you not speed the length of Lake Shore Drive to your boring suburban lives? Did you forget that this period of the day is called rush hour? Did this fact simply slip your mind? For I have places to be! My attention is demanded elsewhere!
Wait, wait, wait world! You clearly do not see how imperative my haste is. But to justify, listen to this phone conversation which I am about to have as I travel down the road. Pay attention!
“Hello?”
“Yo, Dylan, dude! You on your way?”
“Not yet. I haven’t even gone home yet because the traffic is retarded.”
“Alright, dude, it’s cool. Just make sure you find me when you get there. I’ll introduce you to some dudes, dude, and stuff.”
See, world? See?! My attention is demanded.
As I sifted through the tiresome, tumultuous traffic and finally made my way back to the dim, lonely, small apartment I lived in, I pondered what this party would actually be like. Jeff certainly played up the event; I doubt, in any event, that he would even deign parties of any nature as acceptable if they didn’t meet the mold of some intense curriculum. So if he graced these party-goers with his attendance, there must be some sort of intriguing pull to interest him. But will this be a frat party for the older crowd? I couldn’t even imagine the possibility.
Dress up and potentially look like a buffoon, or dress down and look awkwardly out of place? Up. Up, definitely. Button up shirt, jeans, blazer. I don’t look half bad, I surmised.
Front door, obviously you didn’t hear the discussion that was taking place earlier; I’m in a rush. Close, lock, car, roll down window, listen to music loud, cut off traffic…
The party was taking place a bit farther away than I thought, near Lake Zurich. I got lost looking for the house, but once I turned around, I found it. The driveway spilled parked cars into the street.
Clearly this was a fête of grand design. A raucous, jubilant, frivolous mood seemed to leak into the neighbourhood, giving the dark, quiet of the neighbouring houses a pulse. The party’s mood seemed nearly palpable.
The house itself stood a tall, generally large two stories, with a dark red brick and an overtly big garage door. Upon my entering the domicile, I came into a huge entry way that made full use of the height of the house. From first glance, to the right was a sitting room, stairs in front against the left wall, in the room directly to my left, a living room with a large entertainment system, and a dining room at the end of this grand entry.
Stepping through the front door seemed perilous. Countless guests milled about in all directions for innumerable reasons. All were speaking with one another, and the room seemed to echo every conversation, raising the volume to almost deafening levels. Maybe they knew each other prior, but all spoke as if this was a family reunion, and none in attendance were unknown. Others crossed the entryway into other rooms which were filled with more socialites. It was almost too crowded, as one whom was intending to navigate the room would have to be keen on their maneuvers through the bustle of attendees.
I remembered then that Jeff wanted me to find him, so I began to navigate the throng into the living room. I saw him immediately, surrounded by a gaggle of girls, just like the ol’ college guy I knew so well. With a red cup no doubt full of frothy beer in hand, he stood a towering monolith of impressively carved shoulders and immeasurable height amongst his peers.
I thought it keen to wait for his little feminine ensemble to disperse before approaching, but in moments, he caught sight of me and called aloud with his booming voice. “Dude, Dylan! Dude!” He said loud and merrily, a call which echoed from his gaggle for no apparent reason.
Instantly, his gaggle dispersed and he met me with one of the flock he had captured and contained within the circumference of his chiseled arm. “Dude, Dylan, glad you made it.” Never before had I seen the great Jeff Blankly blushing before; it was unbecoming of him. And his accompanying girl was far different than I imagined. This was a tame catch for Jeff Blankly.
“This is Candace.”
She met me with a handshake, “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Jeff has talked about you a lot.”
How awkward. “As he has mentioned you.”
Gorilla have no drink; gorilla need drink. “Hey babe, I need some more beer. Why don’t you introduce Dylan around?”
“Sure, hun,” she said with a coy smile before taking me by the arm to whisk me away. “So, how long have you known Jeff,” she asked after only a moment as the room pulsated with the laughter of the crowd.
“Since college, at NIU. Yourself?”
She let go of me and hugged her own body, letting her light blonde hair fall across her face. “High school. We were actually an item, for a little while, but you know how high school was…”
“All too well,” I said, thinking back about high school, which made me wince.
“Anyway, we randomly met again through one of the parties my friend held, like this one. And we just fell for each other again. It was exciting and thrilling to meet someone from my past, and to see them in a different light.”
“And interesting, no doubt,” I said after a short pause while people clamoured around us. “He seems to really like you.”
“Really?” she said more excited than I believe she intended. Her blush, her smile; I had never thought Jeff was a romantic sort of guy, so seeing a girl smitten over him was a truly unique event. “He has changed a lot since high school. Something seems to have rounded him out; like, if he was a puzzle, he has all his pieces in the right place.
“Actually, do you mind if I ask you a question?” she asked quickly.
“Sure.”
“Well, Jeff and I have gone on a lot of dates… and well, I guess what I mean is, do you really think he likes me? Do you think he might ask me to be his girlfriend? I mean… do you think I’m his type, and stuff?”
I looked at the situation as a true third party, “Yes. And you seem to see him as changed, and that’s good. Yes, I think he does like you.”
“Thanks,” she said smiling. She looked as if she were about to hug me, but decided against it. “Well, let’s get you to meet some of the folks here.” Candace then began to guide me around the party to several different people who I greeted without thought. A group of guys playing quarters, several people in line for Rock Band, many others dancing. Outside, I saw that the fluffy clouds which hung over the city all day had finally let their snow fall to the ground.
Greet the man named Stephen who assures me that he is a famed movie director. Greet the woman named Catherine who is apparently doing something with engineering and assures me that she’s not already drunk. Greet the woman named Joanna who works at the Art Institute downtown.
The room was filled with fairly typical faces, and I was quickly becoming tired of this dull tour of uninteresting people I was being taken on. I was about to weasel my way out, but couldn’t think of the right thing to say as Candace guided me through to the next candidates on this lackluster game show. “And this is Michael, who does some awesome things with computers.” Shake his hand, “And this is his friend Jerry who… um…”
“Oh, I sodder phones,” he said proudly, extending his rough paw for a handshake. Truly fascinating, Jerry; I am thoroughly impressed.
“And let me introduce you to Kevin. And is this your new girlfriend, Kevin?”
“Yeah, Teresa.” He smiled, and opted to grope Teresa’s breast and kiss her instead of offer me a handshake, after which he nonchalantly grinned.
“And let’s see, here is Adriana, who’s in accounting.”
“Hi,” I mumbled as I shook her hand while she burped under her breath.
“Oh! I didn’t see you come in!” Candace said, talking to the new guest. “Dylan, I’d like you to meet my friend Jamie, and her friend Amber. Hey Amber, this is a friend of that guy I like that I told you about. And… I’m sorry, I don’t remember your friend’s name.”
I was sipping the cup of beer that I had been distracting myself with, mid-handshake, when I nearly choked. I don’t know whether the name caught me or her sight in my periphery, but the realization struck me that I knew her. And I didn’t just know her, I knew her. I almost instinctively hid like a turtle, but my lack of a shell made this difficult.
I know her, I know her, I know her… Her name is a blank, but I know her! I dated her in high school. Serious dating; serious relationship, but her name...
“Sarah,” my ex-lover said.
“Sarah!” Candace said with abundant enthusiasm.
“Sarah…” I mumbled. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah…
The snow from the porcelain sky that remained all day long had finally begun to fall around six, when I made my way through the car park at work. My supervisor, a 52 year old woman with a strong leer, was usually quite strict. But thankfully she understands that things happen. I was crying after everything that happened at the beginning of the week, and she tried to talk things through with me. I didn’t get too detailed, but she was sympathetic. I asked if I could leave a little early today, and she allowed it.
I didn’t need to explain myself to those voyeurs, the traffic lights. They understood how I felt. They knew I was pained, and how I held my breath for ten seconds when I felt stressed. They knew I was excited to do something different to clear my mind and relieve myself from this mess that I’ve found myself in.
The roads were slowly becoming slick by the time I got home. Amber was out, and I didn’t know where she could have gone. I went to the shower and, once more, was naturally forced to dwell on my circumstances. The circumstances being that I don’t believe I am capable of ever falling in love, or at least, in love with anyone who’s willing to treat me right; the way I deserve to be treated. The circumstance being that I feel I’ve lost all foresight and initiative in life; like I have lost my purpose for being. The circumstance being that I seemingly wasted my entire life now that I am pursuing a career I never wanted to pursue and that I let my passions dissolve, simply melt away, just like the snow that landed on the hot streets outside or the cold air within the steam filled bathroom, where I sit and steam in my own thoughts like rice.
I’m out of the shower and feel frozen with my wet hair. Several minutes went by as I blew my hair dry while I watched the gathering snow outdoors. My story – the story of my life – the story, most of which I have already explained – seems almost unbelievable. The cruelty and deceit and lies and the quirks of the steps fate took in my life pained me, strained my mind, wore at my body. The feelings are constant and exhausting, with no relief.
I don’t remember when exactly, but when my hair dried, my body unconsciously took me to bed, instantly putting me to sleep. I had a dream: I was on a ship. I was alone, and navigating by myself, but was doing poorly. When I checked the maps of the course, there was a single circle drawn. Five times, ships had sailed near my own, and petitioned me to board. But every time I called back that I wished to board them, the ships silently sank into the blue abyss.
The last thing I remember is that I had somehow managed to sail south. The weather and waters became bitter cold until finally the ocean was frozen all together. I disembarked my vessel and traveled the lonely, bleak, flat mass of frozen water by foot, with no landmarks in sight besides my moored ship in the distance. Finally, after countless hours of exploration, I saw a ship marooned in the distance, stuck, completely frozen into the slab of ocean ice. And no normal ship, but a ghost ship; one of the ships I had witnessed sinking earlier. My heart trembled at the sight, but I went in search of the dead captain.
I woke up to Amber moving my shoulder. She was almost finished dressing in a white and blue blouse and a neat skirt. “Ready to go sleepy head? And in shorts and a t-shirt? Stylish.”
“Where did you go?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“Long story short is that I just went out. But c’mon, we’re probably going to be late. Hey, why don’t you put on that cute black dress?”
Soon, we sped down the highway as the snow fell all around like it did in the movies. As she said, when we arrived, the party was in a mode of full celebration, and we parked far down the street and hobbled in our heels to get to the house before we were blanketed in snow like the ground.
The party seemed to be an interesting affair, not in a way I particularly enjoyed. The entryway was packed full, and I had something alcoholic put in my hand by a stranger within moments; I only accepted it because I craved its warmth as I made my way upstairs to a nameless room with countless coat hangers and put away my jacket. The wine, my random endowment of alcohol, tasted very rich, and helped me to get comfortable in the tremendous and busy house.
The gadabout attendees were among The Aging Young-Adult Brigade, all of whom were about my age, some much older, but few souls younger. All were doctors, or businessmen; advertising extraordinaires, and school teachers, and translators alike, and that’s just to name a very few. But the guests were overall a rowdy lot, with hollers, and yells, and dance gyrations, and alcoholic consumption all too familiar from a college party. This was a college party with slightly more mature attendants, though you might not have noticed.
Like a lonely puppy, I followed Amber around and only talked to who she spoke to. But she knew quite a few people, and it was comforting to be around someone who knew so many strangers. We found Jamie later, though she was thoroughly wasted, and I didn't speak to her much.
We were speaking with some girl named Martha, who was apparently a medical intern, when I heard a voice coming our way from across the room, “…see you come in! Dylan, I’d like you to meet my friend Jamie, and her friend Amber. Hey Amber, this is a friend of that guy I like that I told you about. And… I’m sorry, I don’t remember your friend’s name.”
I couldn’t believe it. I simply could not believe what stood before me. Before I answered, because this friend of Amber and Jamie was undoubtedly speaking to me, I looked up. And I froze at the sight of a dead captain. A stream of thoughts blurred my vision: Thoughts of faded photos, traffic lights, school dances, lost relationships, art schools, make outs, big fights, favourite songs… my life.
“Sarah,” I mumbled as normally as I could manage.
“Sarah!” echoed Amber’s friend, Candace.
“Sarah…” came a quiet, slow third echo from my ex-lover.
“How are you doing, Amber? It feels like it’s been forever!” Candace and Amber hug.
Marsha quietly made her exeunt along with Jamie as Amber replied. “It has been awhile,” she said. She doesn’t recognize him, which is probably for the better. ‘I’ve just been real busy with work,” Amber continued, “I recently got promoted, so there’s just so much to do.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the feeling. I’ve hardly had any free time lately. I’m just glad my Saturdays are still expendable and I can throw these little get-togethers with my friends.”
“They’re great – I really enjoy them, Candace.” Amber said as I looked at him. He hasn’t taken his view off me, even though he has continued to stare into his red plastic cup of beer.
“So, this is a friend of that guy I told you about, Dylan.”
“Yeah, I think we’ve met before,” I said. Amber gave me a questioning look as he finally looked away from his drink, directly at me, smiling.
“Once or twice, yeah,” he replied. “Not in awhile, though.”
“Well, that’s good! I just met him tonight,” Candace admitted.
This speaking wonder of wonders, this plane scraping the sea blue sky, this scar on my porcelain skin is the traffic light against the wall of clouds. He is the red and the green. He is the full circle.
I wanted to stop thinking, so naturally, I pursued the nearest distraction, which happened to be my wine glass. It was unfortunate to note that it was empty after the fact.
“Candace! There you are!” someone shouted above the falderal.
“Oh, Amber, I want to introduce you to this girl.”
“You go ahead. I think I’ll talk with him for awhile,” I told Amber as Dylan attempted to look cool while drinking his beer.
“You sure?”
“Positive. Tonight should be interesting.” Amber gave me a strong hug before she was flown away by her friend like a kite. And there, the boy and girl met again.
I can’t believe it. Of all the places, of all the times, and of all the people, it was here, at a party, introduced like strangers by a friend of a friend in the darkening evening of the snowy night. And it was Sarah… Sarah… I can’t believe…
“And how are you doing?” she asked as Candace skirted away with Sarah’s friend.
“I’m… I’m doing alright,” I blubbered out with a stutter. “And yourself?”
She thought for several moments that drop like autumn leaves, “I’m doing alright too.” She spoke above the noise of the raucous parties, and the need for her to raise her volume is not becoming her.
“Let’s find a more quiet room to talk in,” I suggested. Slowly, we squeezed our way past the oblivious inebriated until we are back in the entryway. There, she pointed up the stairs as the loud music from the next room blared throughout the rooms of the house. We climbed the stairs, dodging beer toting men.
Upstairs was significantly more calmed, with fewer people who were not being obnoxious. There was a sitting room with the door open, which had a large window that looked out on the front yard. It was now raining – pouring – in fact. The only people in the room were a couple on the far couch, taking no notice of us as they continued to whisper to each other romantically.
We sat down on the other couch. I gazed upon her quietly as she finished off the remainder of wine in her glass with a sip. Millions of questions ran through my head; thousands of statements that I wanted to state that just wouldn’t come out.
And she just looked at me. Like we had never been apart in that entire period since high school; like she had been handcuffed to me all these years and was privy to all my actions; like she could see all my secrets like they were highlighted, or like she was the only person who had a matching decoder ring.
“So how are you actually doing?” she asked. “Whenever I see someone for the first time after a very long amount of time, I say, ‘Wow, I haven’t seen you in forever.’ But in your case, that statement seems somewhat more accurate. So, how are you actually doing?”
“I’m doing well,” I said, attempting to formulate some sort of thing to say which would make my life seem even the slightest bit more interesting than it actually was. That didn’t really work. “Just work, and the very seldom party, like this. Nothing special really.”
“Where are you working these days?”
“Just at your typical business firm. Nothing special, but it pays the bills. Actually, I’m in a somewhat prominent position.” Oh my God, who actually says that? “It doesn’t have a sophisticated title or anything, but I definitely get a lot of favours done for me.” I’m talking about work! What the hell is wrong with me? Am I 26 going on 40? Talk about something else!
“That actually sounds pretty interesting,” she said.
Wait, it was interesting! Maybe it was impressive! Wait, why do I care if it was impressive or not? Why am I not thinking right anymore? Get it together, Dylan! “And how are you doing? What are you doing?” I asked.
“Well, I’m alright. Not good, not bad – just alright. Life has been busy – tough. Though, I’m sure you know how that goes. Right now, I’m in advertising.”
I remembered now, when she walked across the stage for high school graduation, they said she was going to the Art Institute of Chicago like she always wanted to. “Cool. So you got into, like, graphic design for advertising?”
She winced for some reason. “No, just advertising. Nothing involved with art, actually.”
“Really? Not at all? Because, you know, you were pretty interested…”
“I know, and I was. But things changed.” She laughed, but I believe she laughed more at herself than because of what was said.
“So what happened, you know, after school?”
“Life happened, basically. After graduating, I went to the Art Institute of Chicago and was studying and such; the typical liberal arts school life. And… I don’t know… I made some friends who treated me well at first. But, like I said, life happened. My opinions – views – just changed because of what happened.
“So, slowly, my performance in school began to drop, along with my GPA. And I saw it all happening, and though I couldn’t figure out what in my inspiration that I lost... Well, in any case, it was just time for me to get out. So I quit arts school.”
“You quit?” I said, half wanting to get a word in, half honestly shocked. As long as I had known her, Sarah had always wanted to be an artist in some fashion. And she had talent in spades, even back in high school. I was sure (after it was over) that I’d eventually have to be viewing her works in museums everywhere, much to my lamentation, I assure.
“Yeah… quit,” she said quietly. I couldn’t hold the question any longer.
“So what was it that made you quit? I mean, you were really good, and it was what you always wanted. It’s just a shock you would ever give up something you cared about so much once you had the opportunity to experience it.”
She tilted her head and looked toward the lamp, obviously thinking deeply. After a moment, her clear voice rung like a bell through the laughter filled air of the party downstairs, which felt like a million miles away, “You’re right. I say without conceit, yes, I was a very good artist. And yes, for all my life, I wanted to pursue that so desperately. But things just happen. Things just happened.”
“What things? Sorry if I seem like I’m prying.”
She nods, “No, I understand. And… You know, normally I wouldn’t explain myself, and I would just hastily change the subject. But because you are who you are, and because we have our history, I guess I’m not afraid to tell you.
“Frankly,” she said as I waited with bated breath, while the loud bass from the floor reverberated slowly as the couple in the corner became more intimate, “it was a boy that caused this mess.”
I couldn’t stop a natural shudder. “A boy, huh?”
“Yep. His name was Drew, and I fell head over heels after meeting him in college. What, jealous?” she asked sarcastically.
I was jealous, so I blubbered out an awkward, “No.” She laughed as I tried to look away.
“In any case, his name was Drew. I really liked him, but strangely, enough, he didn’t like me as much as he thought. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“He cheated on you?”
“Ten points for Dylan. Next question: What happened after Drew happened?”
It all suddenly made sense to me. “You kind of broke, since… well, since, you know. And when you broke, so did your ideals.”
“Perfect answer. I felt like I had perspective then, but when Drew cheated on me, I said to myself, ‘Well, maybe I don’t have the right perspective.’ So I dropped my ambitions and found new ones. And hoped for the best in future endevours.”
“Any luck?”
“Not really,” she said with a half-hearted smile. “But it’s your turn.”
For some reason, this question took me by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Your turn to tell your story.”
“Um… which part?” I hate telling stories, mine most of all. The past has passed, and should just be forgotten.
“The whole part,” she said, with what I saw as a convincing, devilish smile.
Reluctantly, I began, “Well, after things… You know, things, I felt very changed. I’m sure you know all about that, and remember the whole lovely experience.” That was a joke, self-deprecating, and she laughed, but continued listening intently which I hoped she would not do.
“And, well, anyway,” I continued, “It was all over, and I felt pretty lost about everything. Then in a flash, graduation came and went, just like ourselves and our classmates. I had to move on. I was accepted at NIU and went off to college. It was alright, I guess, but the experience left me feeling empty. College felt obligatory, and I hated that.
“Then, I got the job I have now, and I had everything I was told I should have. And I hated that too.” Suddenly, the door opened and many people paraded through. The couple in the corner was interrupted and I scowled.
“You think there is anywhere still quiet?” she asked.
“Probably not.”
“Did you drive here?” she asked, and I nodded. “Take me home. I didn’t want to come here to begin with.”
The rain was pouring now, and the snow which had been out on the yards and roads had turned to slush. I told Amber that I was going home early. She asked if I was alright, and frankly, despite the circumstance, I was quite fine. It was definitely an interesting turn of events to run into Dylan like this, not to sound like a broken record, but again, despite the circumstance. But I feel like after all these years, Dylan is someone I can trust.
The car ride was silent, but it was the silence of a sleeping baby, not a boa constrictor; a calm silence. We took in and observed and felt each others proximity in the small square of the car as we sped down the highway with the pitch black Lake Michigan in the distance. In no time, we reached my home. Laura and her date weren’t there, which was for the best; I could connect with Dylan uninterrupted, which was the intention in coming here.
I let us in and we threw our jackets on the chairs as we plopped upon the couch. I let the TV sing to us as we remained silent just a little longer.
“What did you think when you first saw me?” I finally asked, nodding when he asked if I meant tonight.
“At first, I didn’t really recognize you. Then I almost didn’t believe it was you.”
“Why and why?”
“You’ve changed a lot.”
“How?”
He went silent, which was normal for him. He was always well thought out, and very eloquent because he had no haste in his speech; he took his time choosing his words. He has always been this way, even in high school.
“Many things about you. Little things. The words you say when you talk, the way you carry yourself. Even the way you dress. Though, I suppose that should be expected to change over the time that has passed.”
“Good point.”
There was a long silence filled by the quiet melody of the television. That was when he couldn’t stop himself. He put his arm around me; he soaked his tinder in gasoline so as to ensure the fire he was about to start would catch flame.
I moved away from him instantly. I wanted nothing to do with him physically nor emotionally. This was a chance rendezvous, not an exotic tryst. And instantly, I felt his accusing eyes leering at me with their stare.
“Why not?” he asked.
“You should know.”
“I don’t,” he said, moving closer. I kept him at bay.
“I don’t like you, Dylan. I have no feelings for you. You know that, you’re not stupid.” He backed down.
“I thought… I just thought…”
“Thought like you did twelve years ago?”
The insult stagnated, and I could feel the tension as if I were tuning a guitar string. I couldn’t stop the tears welling up in my eyes.
“You hurt me!” I blurted out finally, turning and hitting him. “You ruined me! Everything bad that has happened to me over the past eight years – every damn sour moment – every single lamentable moment – has all been my fault. But I can trace every regrettable action back to the actions you took to break my heart!”
“I didn’t mean to! You know that,” he pleaded.
“Of course you didn’t. Like the kids playing baseball. You didn’t mean to break the window. It just happened. It’s all fun and games until something gets broken.”
“I loved you, Sarah. You knew that.”
“A relationship is not just about loving or hating. It’s about your actions; it’s about your relationship with the other.” There was a long silence before I said, “And you ruined that relationship with your actions.”
“What more could I have said? You just stopped speaking to me. You just continued as if I didn’t exist.”
“Dylan, you cheated on me. What did you expect?”
He didn’t answer, but I wasn’t finished, “You know you’re saying all this business about love, and I believe you. I loved you too. But you went off with Kaitlin behind my back. It was immature and you know it. I don’t blame you for what has happened in my life, but you were the catalyst for everything that has happened since.”
A quiet whistled through the room. “It was a mistake, Sarah. I was drunk. Kaitlin had liked me for three years. It just happened. You wouldn’t even let me apologize.”
“Come on now, even I know when to admit immaturity. We had a good relationship and all you had to do was respect that. I chose to feel it, and you couldn’t choose.” Another deafening silence. “There’s one thing I want to say, so I’ll be brave. Do you remember Robert?”
“Your boyfriend before me?”
“Yes. I remember him. He was a cute boy and he treated me right. But I was only a freshman in high school. I was stupid. And when we, you and I, met at that party, way back then, I was smitten.”
He was glowing, so I brought him back to Earth, “But that was wrong. You and I kissed, and I fell for you. And I broke up with Robert for you. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that – I broke his heart. I regret it every day; it was the biggest mistake of my life.
“But you knew you shouldn’t have done anything like that with me, making me cheat on him. Especially if you loved me. I’m not blaming you, but there would have been no reason to make a move while I was in a relationship if you really loved me like you said you did.”
I turned off the TV and looked back at him again. We looked at each other quietly.
“So you have no feelings for me?” he asked.
“I’m not sorry I met you. I’m not sorry it’s over. I’m not sorry… there’s nothing to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” he repeated.
We remained silent. After a long time, one which I couldn’t imagine how long the silence was, Dylan finally moved. He leaned over and touched my face. We kissed each other. Then, quietly, he crossed the room, put on his jacket, and disappeared into the night of snow.
We’ll both turn out fine. Eventually things will work out for both of us. We won’t be losing anything but time and a face. It was like a bad fairy tale: the long lost captain came from his sunken ship and met with the one he left on shore. Then the girl screamed, “Your ex-lover is dead! You are dead to me!” And with that, Dylan walked away.
Live through this, and you won’t look back. There’s nothing to say.
