A Post-it for my brain

I don’t think a day goes by, maybe two, when I don’t wonder why.

Conversations and casual mentions would have reminded me of the past, if it had ever been forgotten.

The boy who wanted me, but not the way I wanted to be wanted.

The girl he could’ve had, he should’ve had, but didn’t.

The boy who liked me, but simply not enough.

So the questions, question, really, is never really answered, not to satisfaction. I want (have, need) to believe it’s possible – that Boyfriend really loves for all the right reasons, and for none at all; that there is no settling, or resignation, no taking in his stride, no what-ifs, no if-onlys, no buts or maybes or oh-well-sighs.

Time and time and time again faith fails and questions asked again, with patient, unwearied answers, which alone is half the reply I need to hear (again). The now is littered with cracks into the then which I slip between, returning with renewed doubt, fuelling the incessancy.

But today, today I looked out the window at a foggy, mist-softened morning, sunrise more glow than light, and smoke that rolled lazily across trees and buildings, hesitant to rise. It reminded me, then, of a similarly clouded sunrise that peeked around a building wall, that a boy and girl watched together for the very first time, and I smiled.

I need more moments like this; if not for my sanity, then for his.

One of my favourite things about winter..

...is not having to shave.

[I'm pretty sure that posting something written while high on champagne, sleeplessness, and one of the best nights out in a long, long time is probably not the best idea, but there you go. Happy birthday to the beautiful Angel and my favouritest Chocolate Orange..:o)]

Ridiculous, really

“Don’t stay with a boy, and never stay with your boyfriend,” my mother said. Words like ‘reputation’, like ‘face’, like ‘what people will think’ were spoken, over and over again, insistent tones of an un-hung up phone, but words like ‘what you should, and should not do, you know this’ were slid in between the loudness, like tiny stones dropped from the window of a train, her version of subliminal.

But Boyfriend is the quintessential Good Boy, his ‘what you should and should not do’ hacked in stone, and so what she should have told me instead was this; that staying is really living, that the us forgets the I, that a house is always the emptier for having once been filled. And that when you start to miss one person, you end up missing all the rest, and an insomniac, silent night results.

There is, though, in all honesty, a small surprising joy, no, glee, in the solitude. I can change in the living room, avail myself of certain…facilities…with the door wide open so as not to miss a word of House; I can (and did) indulge in all manner of disgusting habits anywhere I pleased, and conduct culinary experiments with fascinatingly revolting results, and no one would complain of starved neglect; I can write.

Finding the I again was unexpectedly scrumptious, and the hour-long just-before-bed phone calls sweetly nostalgic. Boyfriend’s absence is orange peel; not all bitter pith, but also sharply fresh skin, tangy.

Besides, it’s just for two nights, and I am obviously much too prone to self-indulgent melodrama for my own good.

Saying nothing

[one week ago]

She died today. I barely knew her, hadn’t learned to love her, but I love someone who did, does; that doesn’t help. I feel helpless, and useless, and a lie; what good is a love which cannot make you smile, and sheds silent tears you never know about, a love that leaves you lonely because it’s easier to do nothing, afraid to make it worse.

I want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t because I didn’t do this to her, although it might be easier for you if I did, or if someone did, because then you’d have someone to be angry with, someone to blame, instead of endless whys. I want to say I understand, but I don’t, I can only imagine; shades of dull aching to your emptiness that hurts, so bad. I want to say I’ll be there, but I’m not. I want to hold you, but I can’t. I want to say life goes on, but that’s the whole point; it doesn’t, not for her.

Your pain squeezes regret from me. That every step isn’t a step home. That every anecdote forgot is a piece of life unshared. That every word unheard, unremembered, dies its own little death. That every second passing, passes into an irretrievable neverwhere. I know, even before it’s happened, even before the “it might happen”, that I’d want to run backwards through the past, snatching up all the idle minutes and weaving them into time, more time for what, who, really matters.

I can’t say that, either.

I love you, is all I can or want to say, really.

But it’s not me you want to hear it from.

……

I’m sorry for your loss. I understand. I’ll be there. I’ll hold you. Your life will go on. I love you. I love you. We love you.

That’ll have to do, for now.

What the coffee cup heard

[three weeks ago; office pantry]

Partner A: (passing by the pantry door) And what do we say tonight, Susan?

Me: Ah. We say goodnight, A. *beams madly*

Partner A: Susan. Take a cab. It’s late. The firm will pay for it.

Me: Ah. Ah..ah. But it’s not that late…ahm..it’ll be fine!! It’ll be fine…no worries! *hurriedly tries to look preoccupied, hoping A will have somewhere important to be and have lots of large, important matters on his mind*

Partner A stands in doorway, clearly not going anywhere. Oh crap.

Me: Anyway I don’t have much cash on me, really, so it’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll catch a train.

Fifty dollars in the palm of my hand before I can figure out how to bolt without seeming rude.

Me: No no no NO nooooo…I’ll Eftpos, it’s fine, it’s fine…go, go, I’ll be fiiinneeeeee…

Partner A: *eyes narrowed* I’ll…just give you a ride to the taxi stand.

Crap.

Me: (now in car, and obviously bugged by said coffee cup) You know, A, I get carsick a lot..that’s why I don’t like taking cabs.

Partner A: Well you should’ve said something earlier. You’re taking a cab tonight.

*mentally yanks on hair*

Me: I’m not really used to taking cabs…I don’t know if I’d even manage to hail one. And oh, look, the train station’s right next to us!

Partner A parks by the side of the road and gets out of the car, hails a taxi

Partner A: (to me) You go in the back, and shut the door. (to taxi driver) Take this girl to Carlton. (to me) *glares*

Me: *humbly* Thanks, A.

Partner A: See you tomorrow. *shuts door*

So. In the space of 20 minutes I have managed to look like a) a tight-arse, b) one on the brink of destitution, c) someone with yet another complex (because I don’t seem neurotic enough as it is), and d) an idiot.

All this, of course, could be so easily explained if I could just admit that it’s all very simple, really; I really, really, hate being told what to do.