He said he could tell how much I missed it, being the girl who roamed the city, collecting experiences, writing about it, having fans, admirers and even haters. Notoriety. I could have it again, he said.
“Start it up again. If people knew it was there, they’d come back in a second.”
“I didn’t take well to the scrutiny.” I grimaced at the memory. And unsurprisingly the sting of old criticisms began tingling under my skin. I said nothing, though, because I sensed he’d be disapproving that I couldn’t simply *not* feel old hurt.
He lived most comfortably in absolutes, though his own pain was like a too-bright alarm clock he’d thrown an old shirt over. Still there, faintly glowing. I was tender, never appropriately armored, and no good at pretending otherwise. We are who we are. He asked once, while critiquing a painting I’d done, if I was fragile about it. “Of course not,” I’d lied.
Always, was the truth.
“You could just ignore it,” he said matter-of-factly.
We talked more than once over the analogy of holding thoughts, like sand in our palms, and spreading our fingers to let them filter away. It’s imperative for proper meditation, sifting errant thoughts.
But feelings?
No. We’re crucial, I countered, in a silent argument with his unflinching logic, those of us who can’t deflect feeling. Those of us who are always deeply affected by it. Or else, how would there be any art?
Just then, we crossed the street that transverses the park, and my stomach went cold. As if to illustrate the point.
“I lived on the Upper East Side and he lived on the Upper West,” I explained as succinctly as I could manage. “This is the street that ran between us. It’s where I was standing, waiting for a bus, when he told me he’d gotten another girl pregnant.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. I slid my hand into the coarse, woolen crook of his elbow to skip over a puddle, shiny with filth. I reminded myself I’d already forgiven the transgressor. “It’s fine.”
Was it? Even with forgiveness, simply stepping across a span of pavement became had become an emotional disemboweling.
His face was placid, pointing forward in the direction of travel, not registering mine. That was him. Always focused on the trajectory, unwise to the open book of my own face.
I told myself that it was not a thing you could take personally, someone else’s craving to bring reason to your lack of it. I accepted this. Besides, when you order the usual, you should know what you’re getting.
I knew.
