Supernothing

Seven years later and his effect on me is pretty much the same. I call my best friend; She’s tired of hearing about all of this. She began to hate his name and roll her eyes, and yelling my name she says, “Come on, not again!” It’s hard not to agree with her. I ask myself if this is conscious. Am I inflicting this on me on purpose? Then I remember that even when I hated him sometimes I caught myself wondering if he was okay and if we were ever going to be on each other’s lives again. I shook my head and fiercely told myself to forget it. Seven years, nothing has changed except for him and me.

How many more times will I tell this story? Can I ever make it more interesting than it is? If I change the facts and tell everything that’s been in my head, will it be more intriguing? And if it is, then for whom?

Sometimes, not understanding a person will make them all the more appealing. There’s something to explore. In his case, there were so many question marks. There was that fear again of doing something wrong, saying something unintelligent, seeming too vain and vague. My stomach flipped. I felt like shitting. After any exchange on my part, I curse myself, I think he doesn’t care at all. Then there is the sex which we both reject and indulge. It doesn’t feel like we’re toying with each other, it feels more like a dance and we’re both the worst at it. Where are we going? Are we even going somewhere?

Everything that was him, every book, every song, every film, is still him to me, only this time it is so distant. Nothing has changed, except for him. He’s become distracted, somewhat bitter, and, if anything, he’s more indifferent to life and emotions, his or mine. There’s a lot of frustration involved. I see him as he was and as I dreamt him to be all of these years and he insists on being far away from any of that. Am I being a snob to think it is all an act? That I’m right about him and that’s the reason why I’m so drawn to his voice and scepticism?

It’s almost offensive to hear him say he’s blunt and standard. Is it the heritage? The skin colour? The gender? He told me once he didn’t want children because his genes were not worth passing fourth; I said that mine were. I pictured how it would be to have his babies while he was off with a girl whose name is the same as my love’s daughter. The same girl that asked him to get rid of me. He was the second man I ever imagined having children with. I shook my head harder.

I’m not in love with him. I’m not sure I ever was. It’s something between desire and fascination; I repel the idea of living with him happily ever after, I entertain the idea of having him by my side. It’s something between friends and lovers but isn’t either. We are a Salinger novel. We are nothing but promises made using lyrics of Toh Kay songs.

And then I told him I really like him. He looked at me and said it is reciprocal.