Monday
Change is the only thing that makes us older—the only thing uncomfortable enough to truly age us, to adjust who we are, what we know, what we’ve done. I feel myself getting older, slogging on past my best-by date like all the expensive oils and spices my roommate threw out without notifying me.
The absence of my former lover isn’t nearly as large as his presence once was, but I still find it disorienting how abruptly your “normal” can disappear only for something new and foreign to take its place. I’m still brewing the coffee he gave me. I’m still finding his hairs in my apartment. I still think of the fluffy down pillow as his even though the eleven pillows dominating the bed are all mine.
Saturday
It’s just after dark on a weekend evening and I call my friend to apologize for how long it took to get ready. We’re going out on the town tonight—but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it on an empty stomach.
I’m ready now; I’ll be leaving in the next five minutes unless I have to shit, I tell him.
That’s fine, he says. He asks me if two others can come out with us. Two others who were supposed to be busy tonight.
Sure, why not? I say and hang up the phone. What the fuck do I care? After a necessary detour back to the bathroom, I turn off the lights, grab my bag, and rush out into the promising unknown of the night ahead—only fifty minutes later than expected.
–
It’s a brief and balmy walk from the car park to the bar. The two of us who were actually meant to be here walk down the street making idle conversation with our unexpected guests. I focus solely on my mission for the night and allow them to fade into the set like props. This isn’t a group activity; tonight is my show and they are just along for the ride.
The girl makes a nearly inaudible comment about my shirt and the boy amplifies it for the rest of the group to hear. Apparently she has the same one in a different color.
Wow, you have the exact same one? I say just to say something. Oh, yeah? How many other things of mine do you have?
Inside the bar, I lead the group around like ducklings. I get a Japanese beer and stride out onto the patio to assess the environment. The four of us gather around a column near the dance floor and I orient them to stop blocking me off from the rest of the crowd. Disco music plays over the speakers and I begin to dance right away, feet moving of their own accord.
The boy leaves for a moment and my friend and I smack esoteric comments at each other like table tennis. The girl sits next to us, watching quietly, completely lost. I bring her into the conversation, look her in the eyes. She has such a sweet smile, seems so fragile, so skittish. Like a mouse, or a rabbit… like an animal of prey.
Later, I return from a sidequest and the group has moved to a booth near the railing. I make a joke but it doesn’t land right. She covers her face and scrambles to defend herself. I didn’t mean to embarrass her and the boy certainly isn’t helping. I slump down into the spot she vacated next to him, alienating her from the group like an island. I wasn’t trying to. It’s just that my feet are so tired and my back is aching. She stands there looking uncomfortable like she always does. I wonder if she looks like that when I’m not there.
–
Our route from one location to the other brings us up a street past an old territory of mine. Just as we approach, a tall man in a Hawaiian shirt steps outside for a smoke and the guys burst into laughter—not of humor, but of discomfort, disbelief. We were all hoping to avoid the situation, but it walked right up to us. My friend stops to greet the man and the rest of us stand there awkwardly until a former coworker of mine ventures out. I stand on the sidewalk outside the bar and make casual conversation with a guy who constantly changes his name as the man who used to be my father pretends I don’t exist. Here I’d thought both of us were adults, but I guess it’s just me.
–
We make it to the next location and I immediately seek out and crash down into a sticky barstool. My friend and I place our orders with the bartender and the other two disappear in search of food. Shortly, we’re reunited and I scan the building for a good place to sit. The two of them say they’re leaving, say it like it’s bad news. I try not to sound too chipper as I bid them adieu.
My friend and I set out to the patio alone, our roundabout way of fulfilling the plan we’d decided on for the night. We lounge in the oversized swing and sip our drinks as he beats around the bush, never directly saying what he wants to say to me.
He’s stressed out. He’s upset with me. He’s gone and collected evidence to accuse me of plotting something devious. (As if anything I could think up would actually work.) He’s tired of the same old story, tired of the snaillike pace with which the chapters always seem to crawl. Yet any amount of stress, exhaustion, or frustration he might have can only be a fraction of what I get to marinate in.
The swing sways unevenly as he lifts his feet off the ground and I try to take his concerns seriously, try to find some sort of answer to give him, but I have nothing. I know nothing. I can’t answer any of his questions because I’m looking for the answers to them myself. We end the night without a resolution—him shaking his head at me in disbelief, and me pleading my case in the dark, unable to promise him anything.
Sunday
The moment the credits begin to roll across the screen, I dart down the stairs of the auditorium, weaving between other patrons. I’m in the women’s restroom within a minute and the relief I feel when I make it to the toilet is euphoric. Apparently both a 20 oz. ICEE and a 24 oz. water aren’t the best choice for a three-hour film. When I exit, the rest of the group is gathered against the wall making plans to eat. I get a bit of deja vu, staring at this particular collection of people, knowing I’m only here on a Sunday at an event with them because I have nothing better to do. A favorite local restaurant is suggested and I agree to go just for the food.
The restaurant is packed as usual, smells and sounds the same as it always does. I feel my muscles relax infinitesimally as I enter the familiar environment. When it’s my turn to order, I see the staff scooping the last remnants of my favorite beverage out of the enormous plastic container it resides in. I have to wait for the next batch, but I’ll stand here as long as it takes. That shit’s amazing.
However, the wait means I’m the last person to get to the table and there’s only one chair open—a fifth chair shoved against the outside edge of a four-top. I slide into it, staring at the spot to my left in disdain. I face the window as the others face each other and talk about the movie. I try to scoot my chair in more, but there’s no room and my legs crash into someone else’s. I don’t fit. I’m marooned on the edge of the table. I’m blocking the walkway. As they go around the table discussing the film, not a single person asks me for my opinion. I guess what I’d rate it isn’t important.
The boy points to my drink. Asks, Can I have some of that? And the instant he does, it isn’t my drink anymore; it’s ours.
Of course, I say, like it’s a stupid question. (It is.) What I mean is: If you want it, it’s yours. For some reason despite it all, what’s mine is still yours. But the other girl is looking my way, so I fight to keep it from showing in my eyes as I nudge the cup in his direction.
I crane my neck to stare at the clouds and watch them slowly change shape as they crawl across the great expanse of blue. I miss the sky here, always open wide like an eye, the cloudscapes pushing the limits of what shapes and colors really can be. I miss the grackles drinking out of puddles on the sidewalk and hopping around on the blazing concrete. The loud music blaring from the restaurant’s parking lot into the wee hours of the night. The family I used to have here.
I keep my gaze fixed on the ground, on the table, on the window. Anywhere but forward, at the scenes that make me sick. I know I can’t hide it that well, at least not from him. I can already hear him blurting out an are you upset with me? if I let it show for too long.
Are you upset with me? Does a flame burn?? Does water drown? I hide the discomfort the best I can. No matter how agitated I get, I’m not interested in having that conversation. So I leave the restaurant at the first possible moment—as soon as my food is gone—spitting out polite goodbyes a little bit too fast to truly be believed.
Monday
When I pull into the driveway, my headlights illuminate something unexpected; a cat is parked in my spot. It turns to look at me, unbothered by my arrival, and goes back to staring intently at the rain barrel, eyes locked on something I can’t see. I exit the car quietly and crouch down to greet it. The cat looks my way and blinks slowly at me despite the fact that we’ve never met before; it must be an outdoor pet cat, not a truly feral one. I beckon it to come over so I can formally introduce myself and it walks a bit in my direction but stops a few feet away and continues to stare into the same shadows.
It’s standing directly between me and the gate that leads to my door. I close the car door as gently as I can and try again to sweet talk it into approaching me. The cat seems to tear its gaze away from whatever is lurking behind the rain barrel and eventually trots my way. After a few mindful sniffs of my hand, it brushes its body against my hip as it walks past me and plops onto the ground a couple feet behind me, rolling onto its back. Oh my god. It’s so goddamn cute. I want to crawl over to pet it some more but just as I move to approach, the light by the gate clicks off and leaves us in darkness.
It’s so nice to meet you, I whisper as I stand up. I hope you catch whatever it was you were looking at. I wave at the cat and walk toward the gate. I open the stubborn latch as quietly as I can, but it’s still unbothered. It just lies there and stares at me as I pass through. I look through the slats of the fence after I close it and can barely make out the cat’s eyes shining in my direction from its spot in the dark.
How nice it is to meet a friend on my way home for the night. When I get to the front door, the light above my head illuminates another surprise—a big, beautiful spider nestled against the doorframe. I admire it for a moment, wiggling a finger in greeting at it as if it knows what that means. Finally, I step inside and close the door, sliding the deadbolt shut with a smile on my face.