TUES
My spot on the couch is empty. My behind is parked clear on the other side, planted at the greatest possible distance from my usual haunt. I’m sprawled out as far as my legs can go, dominating the space. Making myself at home.
I’m donned in black. In hard, aggressive lines and reptile skin. Signalling danger, power, mystery. A shell of armor, if you will. Spiritually, I feel a bit like a stag beetle. In reality, I just look a bit dark and intense. A bit stiff, a bit formal, a bit aloof. But aloof is the goal. Aloof, unreachable, and absent. Unbreakable. Impenetrable. Each little detail is part of my strategy.
This tactic never seems to last for very long, but what is it they say? Try, try, and try again? It could be worth the effort. Maybe it’ll work this time. But then again, didn’t someone else say insanity is repeating yourself and expecting different results? Well, if it’s an exercise in futility, then so be it. That’s never stopped me before.
And so, my behind is parked clear on the other side of the couch, planted at the greatest possible distance from my usual spot—which has always been right beside him. My plan is brilliant, really. The physical distance will do most of the work for me, help me to keep some emotional distance, I hope.
He walks into the room and I don’t even look in his direction until I’m addressed. I direct my attention elsewhere (or I at least make it look that way). My arms are crossed, my face is flat, and I’m fully determined to just stay away.
And he sits down mere inches away from where my feet are resting on the couch.
He makes conversation and I reciprocate with trepidation. As I respond, I try to talk more to the other person in the room than him. I pivot the conversation to topics he’s out of the loop on. Deflect, retreat, dismiss. I avoid eye contact as much as possible until I’m hit with his first attack. He smiles at me.
He smiles at me and it’s that smile. The one that comes when we share a moment of silent communication alone. The one that slips out when he’s let his guard down. The one that starts from his eyes and always makes my heart skip a beat. The one drenched in love that always threatens to drown me.
It’s that smile that puts the first crack in my armor.
I recover quickly enough, try my best to hide the wound. Luckily for me, the last member of the party shows up and we all get something else to focus on. I have to sit up to participate, though, and I lose more territory as a result.
It’s a methodical, tedious activity. A craft of practicality. And we are all dutifully working on it independently until he strikes again. With a habitual ease that doesn’t quite have the history to back it up, he inexplicably starts to help me with my part of the project.
I glare at him in shock as he starts to put pieces together for me. He hands them to me in such a fluid and delicate way as if he’s done it a million times. His hands work as if he moved without thinking, as if the action was automatic and no decision had to be made. As if this little act of service came so naturally as to be incidental.
Maybe he’s just bored and wants something to do but I can’t help but see myself reflected in his posture. There’s just something underneath the motion that almost seems unbidden, compulsive… devoted. Something in the movement that reminds me of my own of courses. But before I have time to decide whether or not I believe it’s real, the impact of that simple gesture hits me with ruinous force.
Thus, the hard shell I’ve hidden inside splits open and falls to pieces right in front of me.
–
WED 08:30 AM
The aftermath of my sweeping failure manifests in the form of a headache. Almost as if I actually did bang my head against the wall for the duration of my mortification. There’s an air of disappointment floating around me, the silent settling weight of seeing my plan bomb so completely and so quickly. I move around the dark apartment with lethargic dejection for my swift defeat.
It takes a while to fully wake up, a drawback to sleeping in too late. The dreams were even worse than the night before; it seems they are only becoming more punishing day after day. But the day has to begin so I trudge along through my regular morning tasks.
I notice my phone is blinking at me from the desk with a silent notification so I flip it open to see what the news is. Upon reading the name, I squint at the screen in confusion. What the hell? Two messages from him before 7:30 in the morning? Why??
I brace myself and open the chat, but only find myself more perplexed. I’m faced with what I could only describe as… a good morning text? It’s soft, sweet, thoughtful, even a bit funny. But it’s also the first text between us in almost an entire month. What the hell is going on?
Groggily, I work to type out an acceptable response. Oh, yes, I did sleep in but not because I’m lazy or useless, I swear. Something like that. It ends up just as cheery, and probably longer than it needed to be. As if a leak in me has sprung somewhere hidden and parts of me are flowing out without my knowledge. Perhaps all that damage to my suit of armor hasn’t quite healed. I probably could have kept it shorter. And I didn’t really need to share my good news, did I?
I try to brush off the interaction as a fluke, and continue on with my day as if nothing strange ever happened. I try to focus on me, on my things, on repairing my shield. But every movement throughout the morning only proves how weak I suddenly am.
Four hours pass and I’ve almost entirely forgotten about the messages when I see more have come in. I’m only expecting a simple response to my last reply, something I only need to answer with a “haha” or a “yeah.” But buried amidst the garden of sudden enthusiasm and strangely friendly language, there’s a thorn waiting to pierce me. He says, Let me know how it went.
A sword to my heart, a knife to my spleen. Let me know how it went. The soft and sweet sentiments, the earnest interest, each new effort to continue the conversation… The shock of this sudden onslaught melts my heart right there in my barren chest.
I see the bits and pieces of my carefully crafted exoskeleton on the ground and I can’t even be bothered to try to put it back together. Those soft, gooey guts of mine pour and pour out and I just watch it happen. And then I begin to dig my hands into the viscera and scoop them out myself, let the organs roll off my fingers and splatter onto the ground.
He’s gone and split me open in a mere couple of hours and I obsequiously bleed everything out to him. The thoughts I wanted to keep to myself. The hopes and fears and dreams. They’re supposed to be locked up, damn it! I’m sure if I tried harder, I wouldn’t be doing this, but I feel as if I can’t stop myself. This has to be the fastest my efforts to hold something back have ever failed.
It’s a feeble resignation that flavors the rest of the day. I watch from within myself as some other part of me is all too eager to open up, to tear me apart. For anyone else, I wouldn’t have broken so easily. For anyone else, that armor of mine should have been impenetrable. But I should know better by now. I should know better than to believe that trying to stay away could actually keep me safe.