Keep My Words

“Dude, why are you slacking on the postings?” Justin asked.  “Whenever I’m feeling depressed, I read one and it picks me up.”

“I’m writing one now!” I replied.  “I’ve been busy with school.  I’m hoping to post one today and one tomorrow.”

“Cool,” he said.

I continued.  “Today being less personal, tomorrow being more typical Ashleigh-wah-my-life.”

He was disappointed.  “I hate your less personal ones.  It’s like you’re trying to get into the New Yorker or something, which is dumb.  But the wah-my-life ones make me feel like things could get a lot worse, so I may as well not feel so bad about my shitty life.”

I laughed.  “I’m glad my misery cheers you up,” I told him.

“Well, at least it serves some purpose other than you using us, the public, for your own self-medication,” he finished.

…

On the evening of November 30, 1948, a man and his wife were walking through Somerton beach in Adelaide, Australia.  Across the way, there was a man lying slumped over in the sand with his head against the seawall and feet pointing toward the water.  They saw the man make a movement with his right hand, as though he were trying to smoke a cigarette, and then drop his arm limply.

The couple assumed the man was drunk, and they continued walking.

Later that night, a young girl and her boyfriend were strolling along the promenade at the top of the seawall.  The stopped to have a seat near the steps leading down to the beach.  From their resting spot, the girl saw a man’s left hand lying motionless beside his body.  They commented between themselves that he may be dead because he was not reacting to the mosquitoes.  The lovers remained for about thirty minutes, during which the man did not move.  They concluded that he was drunk or asleep, and thus did not investigate further.

The next morning, the husband from earlier in the previous evening went back to the beach for a swim.  He noticed that the same man was still propped up against the seawall in the same position as the night before.  The police were notified.

Upon arrival at the scene, an officer examined the body and found no signs of disturbance.  The left arm was lying beside the body and the right arm was double bent. An unlit cigarette was behind his ear, and a half-smoked cigarette was lying on the right collar of his coat.

There was nothing unusual about a man dying in a public place, so it was assumed that someone would soon come forward to claim him.

Two days later a post-mortem examination was conducted. Until then it was thought that the man had died from natural causes. Now, however, a mystery began to emerge: despite numerous tests, no cause of death could be discovered.

The body was found to be that of a tall 45-year-old European man in excellent physical condition. Consistent with poisoning, his stomach was found to be highly congested with blood, and his heart had failed.  However, tests did not reveal any poison.

All labels on his clothes were missing, and he had no hat, which was unusual for 1948, especially so for someone wearing a suit.  He was clean-shaven, had no distinguishing marks, and carried no identification.

The police began extensive enquiries to establish the man’s identity. Photographs, fingerprints, and dental records were circulated throughout Australia, New Zealand and all English-speaking countries.  No record of the man could be found.  It was like he had never existed.

A search of his pockets revealed the following items:

• a used bus ticket from the city to St. Leonards in Glenelg
• an unused second-class rail ticket from the city to Henley Beach
• an aluminum comb, manufactured in America
• a half pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum
• an Army Club cigarette packet containing Kensitas cigarettes (a different brand)
• a quarter full box of matches

In January 1949, staff at the Adelaide Railway Station found an unclaimed suitcase in the cloakroom with the luggage label removed. It had been checked in after 11a.m. on November 30th, 1948.  Clothing in the case matched that worn by the man, with identification marks removed. The entire contents of the suitcase were:

• a red checked dressing gown
• a pair of size seven red felt slippers
• four pairs of underpants
• pajamas
• shaving products
• a pair of light brown trousers with sand in the cuffs
• an electrician’s screwdriver
• a stenciling brush
• a table knife cut down into a short, sharp instrument
• a pair of scissors as used on merchant ships for stenciling cargo
• a thread card of Barbour brand orange waxed thread, the same as that used to repair lining in a pocket of the trousers the dead man was wearing

And so the mystery deepened. Numerous people went to view the embalmed body.  Some even claimed that they knew him, but ultimately an identity was not established.

Three months later, further examination of clothing found on the body revealed a secret pocket within one of the trouser pockets.  Inside was a piece of paper with the words “Taman Shud” printed on it.  Public library officials found that the words came from the last page of a collection of poems written 900 years ago by a Persian poet, Omar Khayyam, called The Rubaiyat.

The theme of the poem was that one should live life to the fullest and have no regrets when it ended. The words Taman Shud mean “the end” or “the finish”.

A photograph of the scrap of paper was sent to interstate police and released to the public, leading a random person to admit he had found a very rare first edition copy of Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of The Rubaiyat in the back seat of his unlocked car in Glenelg on the night of November 30, 1948.  The book was missing the words “Taman Shud” on the last page, and tests indicated that the piece of paper was torn from the book.

In the back of the book were faint pencil markings of five lines written in all capital letters, with the second struck out. The strike out is now considered significant with its similarity to the fourth line, possibly indicating a mistake, and therefore likely proof the letters are code:

MRGOABABD
MLIAOI
MTBIMPANETP
MLIABOAIAQC
ITTMTSAMSTGAB

Code experts were called in at the time to decipher the lines but were unsuccessful.

When the code was analyzed by the Australian Department of Defense in 1978, they made the following statements:

There are insufficient symbols to provide a pattern.
The symbols could be a complex substitute code or the meaningless response to a disturbed mind.
It is not possible to provide a satisfactory answer.

More recent attempts to solve the case suggest that the letters aren’t random, just some mysterious cipher with which no one is familiar.

The identity of the deceased man and cause of death remain unsolved to this day.

Police photo of the dead body (above), the dead man’s code from the back of The Rubaiyat (below)

I went to see the Reverend last night. Afterward, still highly intoxicated, I arrived home and sat on my sofa, legs uncrossed and arms at my sides.

I felt like I was falling apart. I wanted to cry, but I stopped myself in fear of waking up with eyes swollen and incriminating. So I slept.

My alarm thrust me out of a peculiar dream in which my kitchen sink was clogged with meat. The meat looked like dog food, and dream-me was disgusted by it. As I shoveled it out, it kept seeping up through the holes in the sink strainer.

I immediately pressed the snooze button and listened to my inner monologue. It was distorted, robotic and demonic. The words turned to barking. This frightened me.

When my alarm went off the second time, I hit the snooze button again. I thought about my friend who had checked himself into a mental hospital years ago. I considered this option for myself, but decided against it. They would likely want to medicate me, and I am not a fan of such things. I want to learn to control my emotions; I want to teach myself discipline. Maybe I can never stop caring, but to appear as though I don’t care would suffice.

(On Friday night I drunk-texted the above mentioned friend: I want to beat my head against the wall til it’s bloody but I won’t. I won’t. The text produced no response, yet I know he understood.)

Once more the alarm and the snooze button. This time in my half-slumber I contemplated running away to a place that no one knows. There I would curl up into a ball and die, only to be found 1,000 years later by a team of archaeologists.  They would never be able to see how crazy I had been.  They would only see the bones of an average girl in her late twenties, who had seemingly lived a life of normal mental capacity.

Nine more minutes passed, and a final execution of the snooze button carried me closer to sleep and further from reality. I saw a whale, a giant whale in outer space. The beast was bigger than the entire solar system, and it slithered like a snake through the stars. When it got to earth’s moon, it opened its enormous jaws and swallowed the moon whole. Then it turned towards the sun. I knew for sure it would eat her up next, and everything would be dark forever.

But I awoke. About forty minutes later I was on the L train, mulling over my sanity (as I so often do). The more I convince myself that I’m crazy the crazier I feel, but isn’t that in itself crazy?  And if I’m falling apart, I can just get some glue and slap on a smile and go face the world.  If that means I’m trying to prove something to myself, like that I can control my emotions and have a good time, then so be it.  Still I don’t know what the right choice is and I never know what to do.  I’m pretty sure that all of this pain and sadness is my fault because I am letting it happen, so I am doing this to myself.  And even if I am being tortured does that make me a victim or a masochist or a fool?  But I’m in too deep now so it doesn’t matter…

Currently I am working to keep what I have deemed my “crazy switch” turned to an off position. To do this, I need to determine what activates it. An early theory suggests it is the consumption of extensive amounts of booze, followed by someone’s actions or words that my drunk-mind interprets as cruelty unto my person.

Once the switch is flipped, the dam in my mind gives way and I become vicious and unrelenting, and ultimately sorrowful and crying, disappointed in myself and my actions. The next day I apologize when appropriate. If I determine that my actions are justified, i.e., someone had actually been callous to me, I still acknowledge the situation.  (Not acknowledging it only allows it to be a plague on my subconscious, an often unnecessary affliction since things are always worse in one’s own mind than in actuality.)

In any case, I just wish I could control myself.

I simply want to be a nice person.  Always.

(It looks as though I’ll have to write about snow globes another time.)

In other news, I saw a dead bird today. Maybe a change is coming.

I still feel as though I am going insane.

Sometimes I think we’re all flakes of plastic trapped in a snow globe.  Shaken.  Settled.  And shaken again.

I’ll elaborate tomorrow.  Hopefully.

Much like Mrs. Simmonson, the excitement of the journey seems to wear upon me…

“How ’bout you come home with your own fucking panties on, aye?”

“It doesn’t matter.  And it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter.”

“If I was going on a date with Miss America I might have my balls waxed.”

“I don’t have any healthy relationship reference.”

“Sometimes I think you kiss me back because you’re just too nice to not kiss me.”

“Rivaling labia.  Rwar.”

“I think I’m going to open a strip club and call it No Expectations.”

“I want to be a stripper and carry the no-tip gong.”

“Low quality hip-hop is like mother’s milk.”

“I pooped an Applebee.”

“I hope [she] doesn’t get drunk and go home with [him] because that would be like giving a puppy a treat when it poops on your floor.”

“Monuments never change.”

“I hope I’m fucking a goat.”

“You rocketed me right up there.”

“Try and fist me.  I’ll probably fucking flinch.”

“If I like beat boxing, does that mean I’m a lesbian?”

“I can’t stop thinking about that pee that I took.”

“Eric Clapton’s son fell out of a window?  What an idiot.”

“I just don’t want to navigate all those folds of skin.”

“That’s good camel toe.”

“I feel like slobbery people are slobbery.”

“Be a good friend and graze it.  Smell my armpit.”

“Are you guys playing a game or something?”
“No, we’re looking at Jesus’s twitter.”

“You need to stop banging yourself with a wroughty piece of wood that will give you slivers in your vagina.  And by wroughty piece of wood, I mean men that are emotionally unavailable.”

(Dissection 2)

I love walking slowly, ambling.  If I find myself in a group with a quick stride, I often fall behind willingly.  When I’m with someone, I try to conform that person to my pace.

Therefore, I’ve decided to write about walking slowing and the ways in which one can increase the already incredible enjoyment in this activity.

1. Hold someone’s hand. This usually works best when only two individuals are leisurely strolling together.  The sign of affection can provide feelings of safety and comfort.  And when you truly care about your hand-holding partner, it’s even more delightful.
2. Look around. Appreciate everything conventionally beautiful, and find the beauty in things normally seen as unattractive.
3. Be grateful for amazing weather. This does not only mean sunshine.  It applies to every soft breeze and all balmy nights.  Welcome each warm rainfall and delicate snowfall.  Take the time to acknowledge the seasons.
4. Eat ice cream. Ice cream is delicious, and it has the ability to make any pursuit more pleasurable.  If there is not an ice cream shop or truck in the vicinity of your adventure, purchasing some from a corner store is perfectly acceptable.
5. Listen. At times when an iPod is unavailable, remember that birds make music, too.  When the streets are desolate and you have no audio device, listen to the sounds silence makes while meandering.
6. Stop someplace. Take a break from your saunter to search through junk at a random flea market or sit on a park bench and watch people.  Notice the children and admire the puppies.

On Sunday evening, I was walking slowly to Dora’s.  Unfortunately, my slow pace was not out of enjoyment, but necessity.  I was still hungover from Saturday.  I had the shakes.  The hood of my jacket was covering my head, and I drank Gatorade as I smoked a Camel light.

I turned onto McKibbin Street.  “You are beautiful.  So beautiful,” a man said to me.

His comment reminded me how lovely the world is.  I savored the rest of my walk.

“Um, what’s up with Keep My Words?” Rona asked me this afternoon.

I told her I wrote something that I’ve been sitting on for the past few days.  I don’t know if  I’m going to post it.  I’ve never not posted something that I’ve written, and I don’t know why I would do it now… or maybe deep-down I do know why.  (I have a few theories.)

So, I decided to dissect it, and use different parts in various new posts, but always keep a copy of the original in tact.  Once certain sections had been sliced away, maybe I could compose something out of what remained.

With that in mind, yesterday I began writing a new entry using a segment from the first.  But.

I don’t know.

I just can’t finish it right now.

Currently, this unfamiliar situation with my writing has me just as confused as my professional and romantic life, which is troubling.  The writing is usually what saves me (momentarily).

I’ve never been hesitant to admit that I am crazy, but these past few days have really solidified the self-diagnosis in my subconscious.  And then I think the more I tell myself I am insane, the more deranged I will become.  It’s like the dam in my mind that’s holding everything back has got cracks in it.  The embankment is sure to give way, and the flood is going to saturate me, drowning my ability to feign normalcy.  Sometimes I think I just need the repairman to patch up the cracks and hold me in his arms, but I keep getting his voicemail and he’s not returning my calls.  He must be distracted.  Happens to the best of us.

But back to this afternoon.

I figured the only reasonable thing for a maniacal person (like myself) to do in times like these would be to see a psychic.  Rona and I had lunch off Bedford, and towards the end of our meal I search “psychic” on Google maps.  The search returned nothing.

“I know there are some around here,” I told her.  “I remember months ago wandering around drunk by Trash Bar, and one of them approached me.  I liked her.  I guess we just walk and leave it up to fate?”

She agreed.

I guided us through the streets towards the train.  On Bedford and North 6th, someone called my name.  It was my friend Drew.  He was outside smoking with another guy.  We chatted for a minute, and then I asked if they knew of any psychics in the area.

“Yeah totally,” Drew’s friend replied.  “That girl right across the street, sitting outside the funeral home.  She usually has a sign.  She does readings, and she’s completely nuts.  Go to her, but keep your wallet close.  Just walk by and she’ll tell you she sees your future.”

I looked at Rona.  “Should we?”  We decided we should.

We crossed the street.  “Palm reading for $5,” she said as she handed us a business card.

“I actually want my tarot read,” I told her.  “Can you do that?”

She said she could.

Now, just because I’m crazy doesn’t mean I’m not skeptical.  But still I listened, and I was honest when she had inquiries about my life.

To paraphrase, the psychic told me that an old Italian woman wanted to bestow a curse upon my mother, but instead the curse went into me when my mother was pregnant.  She said this old woman did not want my mother to be happy, but that wish transferred to me.  The psychic called it the Malocchio, or the Italian evil eye.  She said it has deterred me from my path that would have led to love and happiness, and that the path I am on now as a result of this Malocchio leads only to sadness and solitude.  She claimed it was the old Italian woman’s will for the recipient of the evil eye to die wrinkled-up and alone, never acquiring any of the love that the recipient so desired.  She said this was the recent pain in my stomach, the reason I have been finding it hard to eat food, and why my back has been hurting.

Bummer.  The goddamn Malocchio.

As one would imagine, the psychic offered to help not only cure me but also discover who is responsible for my curse, all for a hefty fee.  I kindly said no.

When I got home, I did what any (in?)sane person would do – I googled Malocchio.  The only test and unassisted cure I could find is below.

Put three drops of olive oil, one on top of the other in a bowl of water. If they stay together, it is not Malocchio. If they separate or become smeared, it is.

To break the spell, insert the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while chanting, “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi,” which means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” Drop the needles on top of the oil and sprinkle three pinches of salt into the water. Jab scissors into the water through the oil three times. Cut the air above the bowl thrice. The spell is broken.

Be right back.

…

One thing I certainly learned is the difficulty involved in producing only three drops of olive oil.  My first try resulted in a tad more than three drops flowing from the pourer, so I got a new bowl of water and tried again.  The second time, the oil drops seemed to stay separate, though at best I thought the text inconclusive.  So, I figured there couldn’t be any harm in attempting the cure.

In conclusion, I hope to reach some resolution about the unpublished and unfinished blogs.  Additionally, I hope that I am cured, or that the psychic was incorrect in the telling of my misfortune.  I’ve got too much love to give for things to never work out.

I missed.

It was a tough shot for me – a bank shot.  The cue ball repositioned itself, and our opponents took their turn.  They missed too, and the cue ball rolled to the same position it was in on the shot I had just missed.  We were playing doubles, and it was time for Elliot to take his shot.  None of our balls had been disturbed.

“Try that shot that I missed,” I suggested to him.

“That’s insane,” he said.  “Isn’t that the definition of insane?  When you do the same thing over and over again and expect a different outcome?”

Because of ongoing attempts to ascertain the level of sanity present in my personal decision making, I immediately considered Elliot’s statement in connection to my life.  After mulling it over for a few days, I decided to look to Dictionary.com for an accurate definition of insane.

insane – (adjective) not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.  utterly senseless.

Not sane.

sane – (adjective) free from mental derangement; having a sound, healthy mind.  having or showing reason, sound judgment, or good sense.

Whether or not good sense played a part in me recommending that pool shot to Elliot is debatable.  I’m not the best pool player, but I am confident that there was no other shot on the table, so that may illustrate sound judgment.

Rather I am curious if good sense plays a part in the choices I make that I know will have a direct effect on my heart.  These matters tend to be a bit more complicated than billiards.  Considering the constant changes within my own self in addition to the evolution of people I hold dear (not to mention those people’s undeniable differences in relation to each other), I can never really try for the same shot.

But does this truth do anything to confirm my sanity (or lack thereof)?  I suppose not.

The pool game was on Monday evening, and on Wednesday the wheels were still turning in my head.  I had a lot to drink, as was evident in the final moments of the night.  Around 3 a.m., I drunk-texted Rona.

“I can’t tell if I’m crazy or right,” I told her.

In her reply the next day, she made one thing clear.  “No apologies,” she responded.

Still I can’t help but think that every word I say moves the balls and slants the table, even slightly.  And I always wonder what I’ll do when it’s my turn again.

On August 20, 2007, a 12-year old girl from Washington was vacationing with her family at Jedediah Island Park in British Columbia.  As she walked along the water, the young girl made a startling discovery.  It was the right foot of a human.  The male body part was still dressed in its size 12 Adidas shoe and a sock.

Six days later, a couple visiting Gabriola Island in British Columbia made a similar discovery.  They also found the severed right foot of a man, wearing a size 12 sneaker.

Because feet go through a process called adipocere, where ocean waters turn the fat into a soap-like substance over a period of weeks and months, it is extremely difficult for forensic analysts to gather clues.

So the feet remained a mystery, and months went by before on February 8, 2008, a third foot was found washed up on Valdes Island in B.C.  Again, it was a man’s right foot wearing a sneaker and sock.

Forensic entomologist Gail Anderson studied the cases.  “A body in the ocean will first sink, and then, depending on the depth, float back to the surface as it becomes bloated with gas,” she noted.  “It is common for hands, feet and the head to detach as a body decomposes, but generally those limbs do not float.”

However, tennis shoes do float.

The fourth right foot was found on May 22, 2008 on Kirkland Island in B.C., but this time it belonged to a woman.  The foot donned a sock and a New Balance sneaker.

Less then a month later, two hikers exploring Westham Island, B.C., came across a man’s left foot floating in the water.  They called the police, and further investigation concluded that the foot came from the same victim as the February 8th finding.

But there were still more feet to be found.

On August 1, 2008, a camper on a beach near Pysht, Washington, found a size 11 athletic shoe covered in seaweed.  Inside of the shoe contained bones and flesh, and testing confirmed it was that of a human.  Canadian police and the Sheriff’s Department in Washington agreed that the foot could have been carried from Canadian waters.

Then, on November 11, 2008, a married couple walking their dog spotted a shoe floating in the Fraser River off Richmond, B.C.  The man fished it out.  It was from a pair of New Balance, and inside was a woman’s left foot.  A forensic DNA profiling analysis indicated that it was a genetic match to the foot discovered on May 22 on Kirkland Island.

The final foot was discovered on October 8, 2009 by two men walking along the Pacific Ocean in Richmond, B.C.  It was a man’s right foot in a white size 8.5 Nike running shoe.

No other body parts connected to these feet have been found.  The discoveries have caused speculation that the feet may be those of people who died in a boating accident or a plane crash in the ocean.  Foul play has also been suggested, although none of the first four feet contained evidence of tool marks.  Yet this does not rule out foul play.  It is possible that the bodies could have been weighted down and disposed of, and the feet may have separated due to natural decay.

Under optimal conditions, a human body may survive in water for as long as three decades, meaning that the feet may have been floating around for years.

Finding human remains on a beach is not uncommon, however, finding feet and not the rest of the bodies has been deemed unusual.  “Finding one foot is like a million-to-one odds,” said Garry Cox from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, “but to find two is crazy.”

In related news, I once got a fortune cookie that said “If the shoes fits, it’s probably your size.”

Also, the weather is getting warmer in New York.  I painted my toenails the other day.

“I guess you want your keys back,” he finished.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I said. Whatever force was barely holding me together gave way, and I fell apart. “This is stupid, I’m going to go.” I stood up, as did he.

“No, uh, I…” His words sounded disbelieving, but not as if he didn’t want to let me go. It was more as if he didn’t want to let me go like that.

“I can’t do this,” I told him.

We hugged tightly.  That moment was the only thing that felt real that day.  The embrace was so strong that had I died right then, it may have resulted in a cadaveric spasm.

(During a death happening under extremely physical circumstances with intense emotion, a cadaveric spasm may occur. It is a rare form of muscular stiffening which is sometimes seen in cases of drowning victims when grass, weeds, or roots are clutched just prior to expiration. A cadaveric spasm often crystallizes the last activity one did prior to death and is therefore significant in forensic investigations, e.g. holding onto a knife tightly.)

“If you ever need anything, you can call me,” I managed to say through relentless tears.

“If you ever need anything, will you call me?” he asked.

I knew I couldn’t. I needed to cut the cord. “Probably not,” I replied honestly.

The walk home was horrible. Quinn said she would come over, and my roommate Jayme abandoned the gym to buy me cupcakes and head back to the apartment. When they arrived separately, I was sitting on the sofa in my sunglasses drinking Chambord, vodka, and soda.

So it goes in life that those wounds have healed and turned to scars while others have opened.

I’ve begun to realize that one can never really cut the cord. It’s less an act of severing and more a matter of participation.  Although cliché, there is sometimes a slow, subtle game in progress that can start even before the first kiss.   One opponent gracefully places the ball into the other player’s court, allowing him/her the option of passing it back or kicking it out of bounds and walking away. Even when choosing the latter, most can’t help but look back, and his/her adversary may wonder if the exit from the court is to find the ball and put it back into play, or if the game is over.

Additionally, some may teeter between acknowledging the want for a constant match and accepting that the self is better off alone. However, the second might not be so much a realization as opposed to a means of self-preservation; a self-convinced thought.

Lately when contemplating these matters, my mind only sees shades of gray.

Like the other night when Stacy and I were discussing a more recent romantic plight. “Do you want him to be your boyfriend?” she asked me.

“I mean, it’s just not that black and white anymore,” I told her. “I want to be with someone who wants to be with me.”

I wonder if I’ll ever truly understand these things.  Mostly, I just don’t know what to do.  Ever.

(I don’t know what silence means. It could mean anything. – P.J. Harvey, “April” Listen.)

I remember the day that I ended it.

Like every year, I had gone to Maine for the time surrounding July 4th. When I returned, he made no attempt to see me. After a few days, I texted him. My message claimed that I was going to be in his neighborhood Friday afternoon and would love to stop by and say hello. This was a lie. I couldn’t bring myself to say I needed to “talk” to him.

That Friday the weather was hot, and I walked slowly to his apartment. My iPod was playing “April” off of the new P.J. Harvey and John Parish album. Quinn and I were texting each other. I asked her if I was doing the right thing. She, along with most of my close friends, had been listening to my insecurities about the relationship for too long. “Yes,” she replied, “It’s time to revive Summer Ashleigh! There are plenty of other guys out there to screw our lives up.”

So I kept walking. My sunglasses masked the fact that I was crying. At one point, a man leaned out his car window when I was crossing the street. “Great dress. You look beautiful,” he assured me. It was nice to hear. It’s always nice to hear.

I smiled and said thank you, and I kept walking. This had been a long time coming, and I knew that. To this day I can’t understand why I held on for so long to someone that didn’t seem to want to be with me.

My trek was over. I knocked on his door.

“Hey!” he greeted me happily.

“Hi. I brought this stuff for you.” My voice cracked as I handed him a bag of random things he had left at my apartment. He could tell that something was wrong.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just, I need to use your restroom,” I replied. Once safely inside the lavatory, I tried to compose myself.

“Um, you’re worrying me,” he called from the other room.

When I emerged, I took a seat on his sofa. He gave me a beer and sat on the chair across from me.

I took a deep breath. “I can’t… do this anymore,” I said as I gestured between us.  I could barely look at him, so I stared at the wall and poured my heart out.

I’m not sure how long I spoke.  I remember saying that I considered simply never calling him and letting the whole thing die, but I thought what we had deserved some sort of ending. Also, I knew it was inevitable that we would run into each other, and I wanted to avoid what I now know was unavoidable awkwardness. I told him he didn’t need to say anything, and honestly I didn’t expect much.

“No, I feel like I should say something,” he started. “I guess I have been a little… reckless,” he said. He seemed unaffected and loveless on every level.

reckless – (adjective) utterly unconcerned about the consequences of some action; without caution; careless

“Look you don’t owe me an explanation,” I reminded him.  There was a moment of silence.

“So,” he began, and for a moment I thought he might say something of significance, words that might give worth to the previous eight months of confusion. A statement to remind me he cared. Anything genuine to make me feel a little less stupid.

“I guess you want your keys back,” he finished.