
Make Nice
The smell in the back of the taxi reminded Jo of a room that had been cosy for too long. The scent of burned down candles, heat from beneath blankets and quietness filled the small space between her and the passenger seat. The driver was almost quiet and hummed the classical tune almost correctly as the car crawled through the city.
The streets were watered down. People had fled the rain and hid under trees, in cafés or hadn’t found their way outside at all. The storefront of a design agency yelled at her, WE GET SHIT DONE, an accusation. Good for you, just you wait, Jo thought, as they turned the corner.
‘I go straight, not turn left,’ the driver finally piped up, disregarding his navigation system. Jo didn’t care.
‘That’s fine. You’re the boss,’ she replied quietly, a minuscule smile lifting the left corner of her mouth.
‘You go see friend?’ the driver forcibly continued the conversation after a moment of silence.
‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend.’ Jo had told half-truths to herself for months, why not tell them to strangers as well?
‘It’s bad weather for walk.’
She looked down at her fine leather boots. They were made for looking tough, not walking long distances. As if I’d take walks in these, she thought to herself. Out loud she said: ‘That’s why I’m taking a taxi.’
‘Very smart.’
Jo couldn’t agree with his statement, at least not wholeheartedly. A smart person would not have agreed to leave the house in this kind of weather, at least not to meet up with someone who wouldn’t even communicate in full sentences anymore.
Coffee later?
It used to be different. Jo used to get short stories in her inbox, Russian novels of information and conversation. Victor Hugo would have been proud of them — then.
But familiarity did breed contempt. Aesop — or was it Chaucer? — had been onto something.
With every word that went away on screen and paper, a word disappeared between their lips, until they barely spoke when they saw each other, going to the theatre instead of making up their own stories, replacing theatres with the movies when their relationship became less civilised in itself. Long nights turned into quick dates and the kind of silence you didn’t want before going to bed with someone.
Jo had dressed up today. She wore that maroon coat she liked so much, and the black leather boots made her feel like a spy-lady. He didn’t like it when she wore all black, so she’d picked her outfit carefully and opted for black tights, a black skirt and a black blouse with black stitching on the collar.
Her jaw was set, her eyes focused on the road outside, while in her mind she was playing out different scenarios of how the conversation she was about to have might unfold. Only two of them ended in her taking a dessert fork and lodging it in his thigh before paying for her coffee and leaving the café. Jo squeezed her eyes shut in discontent.
“Here is ok?”, the driver pointed at a street corner before them, barren and bleak. She’d have to walk the last couple of metres to get to where they were supposed to meet.
Jo nodded yes and handed him some money.
‘Keep the rest. Thank you.’
‘Thank you. Have fun with friend, make nice!’
Jo looked at him for a second with raised eyebrows before she gathered her things, climbed out of the taxi and opened her umbrella. An icy wind accompanied the rain still pouring down. Jo cursed the moment she’d left her flat.
The café was almost empty. No witnesses. He was already there, coat hanging over the back of his chair, a newspaper in his hands.
She squared her shoulders a little and walked up to the table in the corner of the room, only illuminated by the dim October day pouring in through the windows, and two candles.
‘Hey there.’
He got up, kissed her briefly and helped her out of her coat.
The way he looked her up and down made her fingers twitch for the dessert fork.
When she was sitting across from him he said: ‘You could’ve worn something less … black.’
‘I thought about it. But then I decided against it.’
‘Stubborn.’
She crossed her arms and cleared her throat.
‘Ian, why are …’
The waiter interrupted her: ‘Hello, what can I get for you two?’
As per usual, Ian ordered for the both of them.
‘Two coffees, just regular Americanos. And some water. Thanks.’
Jo didn’t really care. She hadn’t come here to drink coffee. Jo was on a mission.
‘Ian, what do you want?’
He looked startled.
‘I wanted to see my girl. I haven’t seen you since I got back from my parents’.’
Jo said nothing.
‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’
She closed her eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I …’
The waiter brought their coffee, giving Jo something else to do for a second.
Make nice, she thought.
‘Ian, I need to ask you something.’
‘O-kay?’
Jo looked at him. He was alert, his eyes betrayed the slightest bit of fear.
‘Do you love me?’
He exhaled shakily, followed by laughter.
‘Oh my word, Jo, you scared the shit out of me. What kind of question is this?’
Jo got angry but swallowed hard and took his hand on the table.
‘Answer the question, please.’
He stopped laughing and looked at her. Jo felt like it was the first time in a long time that he actually saw her.
‘Are you serious?’ He squeezed her hand and started shaking his head. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean “why”? I don’t fucking know, I just do, okay?’
Jo took a sip from her cup and looked out the window. The grey outside calmed her down.
‘What is this about?’ Ian asked and finally let go of her hand.
‘Ask me,’ Jo demanded, not looking at him.
She set down her cup.
It was silent for a moment. Jo looked at Ian. Whatever was going on in his mind, he was not letting on.
‘Do you love me?’ The question landed on the wooden surface of the table like a gavel.
‘I don’t think I do.’
His hand between them didn’t move. He just looked at Jo. His voice was almost coarse.
‘What does that even mean, you don’t think you do? Of course you do. This is some bullshit. Do you want to pick a fight? Do you want to break this off? Is this because of our fight before I left? Jesus, I didn’t think you’d overthink everything!’
The last word echoed in the room, far too loud.
‘It’s not because of our argument, Ian. It’s not because of anything. It’s … more the lack of something,’ Jo finally said.
‘A lack of what, Jo?’
‘If I could tell you, it would be a “because”. Don’t you feel it? That something just isn’t right?’ A hint of bitterness clouded her voice.
‘No. I don’t.’
Jo nodded her head. Ian’s hand was still on the table, balled into a fist now.
‘Maybe that’s just it. One person feels it, the other just … doesn’t.’
Her words stood between them.
It had gotten considerably darker outside. The rain hadn’t stopped, and angry streaks rushed down the window. Jo traced one of them with her finger. One of the candles had gone out.
‘Ian, I have to go,’ Jo sighed.
Her anger had evaporated. She had made as “nice” as she could have. She had finally set them free, even if Ian could not realise it yet. And no dessert forks. Jo looked at him. Ian had leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the sugar bowl in the middle of the table. His back was hunched.
‘So, you’re just gonna give this up, just like that, and you can’t even fucking tell me why.’ Disbelief dripped from his lips.
Jo put some money on the table. She couldn’t say she was sorry, because she wasn’t. She couldn’t even tell him it wasn’t him, because even that would have been some kind of lie, and Jo was done pretending.
‘Jo, please, let’s take a walk and just … talk this through, like we used to. Come on.’ He was pleading.
She got up from her chair and put on her coat.
‘I’m wearing my good boots,’ she said, turned around and left.
