The one that got away

I felt a light touch on my shoulders. Familiar. Hungrily digging in to my collarbone, fumbling for the familiar crevices. Uncomfortably intimate and out of place.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I..” I turned to say. I was alone in New York City. No one knew me well enough to touch me like that. They must have mistook me for another blonde. One of the other blondes in the blonde army. Blonde hair is playfully ubiquitous. And that’s why I like it.

I turned my head to reveal the mistake, saying my sorries — you’ve got the wrong girl — and then I abruptly realised and gripped my teeny tiny espresso birdishly. Dropped my pen. Felt the air swim and ferment into a kind of concrete that I had to wade through. Breathing laboured. Humidity doubled, sweat condensing in tiny clusters in mutiny on my upper lip…

“Ofelia,” you announced. Steadying yourself by pinning my name on my face in the jungle of buildings and bodies that caged us. “Hi I’m, I’m sorry to just pounce on you like this but, I just arrived this morning and began to trawl through the area, Williamsburg is it? where you said you were staying. I could imagine you twitching and writing with a coffee by your side in every cafe and I’ve been searching them all. I almost gave up. I know it’s crazy. But it was also like a little tour, a little Ofelia-safari. I thought I… I guess it was audacious to think I’d find you…” you trailed off. I couldn’t be sure if you realised I was melting. You stopped talking and waited patiently, bracing for a tirade or embrace. Feet firmly planted to resist any explosion. The response I was mustering gurgled inside me. A gooey foetus. I sipped my coffee and waited for all the cogs to fit nicely together like bricks.

“I just… I… give me a second” I pleaded. Feeling claustrophic from all the people and the tiny chic cafe. Earlier a refuge, now a stage. There weren’t even any seats for you to sit down on. So you just postured yourself self-consciously and let the audience stare. Long beard. Chequered shirt. The smell of the beach, carried all the way on the plane and through rows of dirty New York streets tohumbly bequeath to me. To wrench the air from me in this moment of surprise.

I breathed in your beach and exhaled. Staring at your shoes. “You came here to see me then, I guess?” I said.

“Well, yeah, I, I had this dream of surprising you. I kept thinking about it. About what you’d do. About how you love making rash decisions. How it suits you somehow and you always fall on your feet… How maybe, if I couldn’t be with you, I could try being more like you… And then, seeing in me the things I love about you we might begin to mirror each other. Maybe you would indulge me. Maybe I could show you….”

“Show me what, Matt?” I barked, suddenly fuming. A teaspoon rang out with startling clarity. Placed melodically on a saucer. No one spoke. Brawling Australians… I guessed everyone was thinking… Brawling bloody Australians. Boozehounds. Bogans. Landing, staying, multiplying, obliterating themselves. No. No, I didn’t want Matt here at all. I felt suffocated, chased, pinned down and helpless.

Even more sickening was the gentle urging smiles in the stalls. Strangers enjoying the theatre. Go on they whispered, kiss him, embrace him, say yes. Exonerate him. He’s here now, making it up to you. My husband would never do that, I could hear the middle-aged ladies sigh. Sigh and swoon over Matt and the dangerous look he has. Free-spirited and a little savage. Up to no good. Angrily watching eyelashes bat and hearts throb I imagined what I should have said. Had I the breath, the eloquence and the sass to pull it off. I would have screamed our story at all those smug strangers. Partly to berate him, partly to absolve me, I would have screamed:

“I used to travel 3 hours on trains to see Matt on the weekends. I didn’t have a car. I schlepped all the way on the train and begged him in that pittiful “I don’t care but if you could possibly, I’d really appreciate it if, I mean it doesn’t matter if you’re busy” way girls have. To collect me. And I’d be so excited the whole stinking ride on public transport wouldn’t even bother me. It would fade away in my hyperactive fervor. Obsessive hair brushing, eyelash curling and skirt straightening. Just for him. He who was always half an hour late to collect me. Generally disinterested or stoned. Board in the back — a little grumpy I’d ripped him from the crest of a wave. And I was wide eyed, stupid and grateful just to be inhaling the same particles of air that he exhaled. I was that poor eager handbag that you just want to hug, shake and slap all at once. Do you know how long it took me to realise I was better than that?!

And what did you say to that girl Matt?” I could have said in the cafe. Cross-examining him. He would have remained silent, I think, and I would have answered with the wild satisfaction of the deeply scarred: “you told her you didn’t love her, you said it was nothing serious, you made no priority of her, she was either present or not, and you gave nothing to her. Nothing of yourself, nor any kindness or compassion. While she dreamed up schemes to see, impress and worship you silently. Head against the mirror, shaking with tears, when you kissed another girl at the party. This isn’t a relationship, I banged my head. Dabbed my mascara, slumped against the door, legs splayed and toes pointing inward. Raped of something.

Even after that I let myself cry at your feet and ask your chest for permission to be your girlfriend. And you walked out, and left me there”.

The corners of my lips turned up as I imagined that particular apocalypse. You were still waiting. I guess I had to do something with you. Determine your fate. Neither of us had ever owed each the other anything. We both wanted to own the other’s limbs at different times. I’d paid more of a price than you for my longing. Deep, and slicingly unrequited. I never imagined that the mistake you made might have torn you up so much. So much that you’d put yourself on a plane and wait here to be judged.

Ears ringing with all the things I might have said, I studied you. Letting the silence become music. The longer it persists the more beautiful it is. The rarer the moment. The deeper the gaze. The pureness of body language allowed to reign.

“How did you afford the ticket?” I asked finally. “I just did, Ofelia. I just made it work”. A wave of tenderness ironed the creases on my brow. “Can I buy you a coffee?” you asked. “I have no right to ask much more of you now”.

“You have no right to ask anything of me”, I flared, clutching at my anger with frustration. Holding on to something that seemed to be seeping away. Flaking as I searched for it. I felt like throwing a tantrum and slapping him. Like having a shot of tequila or running hard and fast. Having an ice cold shower.

“Because you knew I’d love the surprise didn’t you? The shock? That, it was the only way to do it, because if you asked I would have said no. No, we’re done. I’m here and I love it and I don’t want you to disrupt my solitude. And I don’t”, I added.

You were about to laugh. I was about to walk away. Everyone kept feigning disinterest. Even some people outside. I must have been gesticulating with fury. My hands had come to rest below my chest caging a column of air across my stomach. You took them in yours. “Just give me this much rope Ofelia. One day’s rope. And I can show you I’ve earnt it, or I won’t. I can try and untie the knots” you offered.

“And you make it all sound that easy”, I balked.

You crumpled a little and held your ground. I was testing. Willing you to fail me.

“And I’ll have another double espresso”. I said, unsure if I was giving in or letting go.