The green.

The blue.

The grey.

The grey is different, though. It’s not fueled by the sun or the rain. It’s hard. Life-less. Empty on the inside.

They tell me it’s called “Concrete” and it’s “man-made”.

From then on, I notice that Concrete is everywhere. There is more grey than green and blue and yellow and red and brown. There is more grey than any other color.

The Earth is grey with shades of other colors. Not the other way around.

The Earth is grey. The Earth is “Concrete”. The Earth is “man-made”.

And what do I smell?

All kinds of different things. When I pass by a store with black and white stripes, “Sephora” I smell sweetness, I smell desire, I smell perfection.

Then, I turn a corner and I smell the worst of human odors. The odor of human pee. The sharp, acidic sting of pee. I sneeze with disgust.

The perfection is now mixed with disgust.

The Earth is a paradoxical place.

And what do I taste?

I walk into a store with food. I pick up an apple and turn it in my hand. Not a single scratch or imperfection.

“It’s perfect!” I say to them.

And then I take a bite. It lacks nature. It tastes gummy, empty, fake.

The perfection misled me.

The Earth is a fake place.

And what do I touch?

A hand of someone that really knows me. I tie my hand into Their hand and squeeze it tight.

It’s warm, comfortable, it’s loving.

The Earth is full of love.

And what do I feel?

Confusion, sadness, and marvel. At it all. At the Concrete, at the paradoxicality, at the fakeness, at love.

The Earth is complicated.

Wherever I have traveled to — no matter if that is New York, Nebraska, Columbia, Singapore or rural Poland, I have observed that political discourse follows almost the same pattern. A pattern of emotional blindness, that disallows truly predicting the results of many democratic elections (I’m looking at you, Trump) and reaching a less aggressive and more convincing dialogue between people with seemingly opposing political views.

Perhaps a recent situation from my own life might make you understand what I mean.

It’s a Sunday. My family and I sit by the dinner table at my grandma’s in Gdansk, Poland. It’s a pretty big city for Polish standards — the metro area exceeds 1 million people. By no means is the area rural.

The European Parliament elections are to take place the following day. After eating all the meatballs, sausages and potatoes we can handle, the conversation starts to steer into dangerous territory. Politics.

My mom asks my grandma, just as she does before every election, “Mom, you’re not going to vote for (let’s call it…) Party X, are you?”

My grandma laughs, looking to the side, shaking her head “no” slightly. But she doesn’t say anything else. That’s not enough for my mom — she takes it as a firm “Yes”.

“Mom, you know what they’re doing, right… You know how they ruined the business landscape, you know the thieves that they are! They’re mental, I’m telling you, what’s happening to this country under their rule is…”

I don’t even listen further. I focus on the last bits of mashed potatoes that I snatch off the plate before me. I know I’m not missing anything, though, I have heard my mom scream at Party X countless times. Without any argumentation, without any real understanding of why Party X is, in fact, my grandmother’s party of choice, my mom continues on screaming, full of anger, hate, and disbelief that “you could even vote for these savages”.

My grandma doesn’t respond much until the very last minute. “Well, who would I vote for otherwise? Your Party, Party Z, are thieves, too! I won’t vote for that scumbag who…”

I mute out my grandma’s voice. Again, I know what she is going to say. She will never want to really understand, or hear, why Party Z is my mom’s favorite. Instead of actively listening to their dialogue — or, really, a two-sided monologue, I opt for taking the last meatball in front of me.

God, politics is making me gain weight.

But, the weight gain is not the point, of course — nor it what Party X did, or what Party Z did, or who even won in those European elections. The point is that neither my mom nor my grandma tried to understand one another. Their way of convincing the other was bashing their own opponent with no substantial arguments, besides a chain of well-crafted insults and situations that made them look bad. There was no “But, mom, what do you like about Party X? Why do you think you would do that best? Have you thought of the consequences stemming from Policy A and Policy B?”. There is no emotional understanding of where the opponent is coming from, which leads to a steadfast electorate in almost every political system.

We are on a brink of a political shift in Europe, in the Americas, in the Asian countries — all over the democratic world, extremely right- and left-wing parties are being elected. No-one is “moderate” anymore. There seems to be an immense wave of disbelief amongst the opponents of each of the winning parties every time the majority chooses someone else, without any thought of why people chose to vote the way they did. There is a lot of frustration, confusion, fear, anxiety… but no strive to understand or learn from what the country needs and why. Perhaps the key to reshaping the political landscapes, and our conversations by the dinner table, is not flushing each other with the arguments but actually asking a simple question: “Why?”.

I zone out. The image of Ari, my therapist, blurs before my eyes. I’m in my own world again. I’m not on the Freudian, leather couch anymore but, instead, I am reliving the memories of last night. Me. The suffocating, yet, oh so pleasurable, smell of cigarettes. Him. The burning, sweet taste of avoiding consequences, otherwise known as rum and coke. Us. The loud sound of house music played in a grungy bar. We laugh together, dance together and occasionally knot our bodies in a kiss. Suddenly, His face before me becomes less and less sharp. The memory starts to blur away and I hear Ari’s voice in the distance as if it came from behind a glass wall.

“Monica?”

I zone back into the therapy room. The image of Ari comes first. He looks at me (or through me?) like he always does, with his piercing blue eyes framed by wrinkled eyebrows. I know he’s analyzing me right there and then, too, trying to match my behavioral patterns to the theories he has learned during his PhD in psychology. I see him mouthing my name. I can hear him, but still only barely. Suddenly, as if someone has finally adjusted the frequency on the radio, the noise becomes sharper and clearer. I can hear everything now. I’m back.

“Monica?” he asks again “Monica, are you okay?” There is more staring and more eyebrow wrinkling involved.

“Yes, yes, sorry. I just had a thought.” I say, avoiding his eye contact. I want to spare the psychoanalysis just yet — I don’t want to hear about my childhood, my bad habits, my self-destructive tendencies. I’ve learned that the best way to do that is just to keep talking, delaying Ari’s comments, not letting him speak too much.

“What thought?” Ari asks. Bingo, off I go.

“It was a flashback actually. From last night. Did I mention to you what happened?” Ari shakes his head no in response, even though we both knew the answer. “So, I was drinking. Quite a bit, I’m guessing. Started with some wine at my house but then… then Chris came back home from work. I made him his favorite, a Cuba Libre, the way he really likes it — more rum than coke, more lime than ice. It was strong and I could smell the rum from his glass as we were sitting down. You know what I’m talking about, the sweet, burning smell of rum… The one you feel when you see a Captain Morgan commercial on TV.” I pause for a quick second and catch myself sniffing in the imaginary smell.

A second too long, I guess. Ari manages to jump in with more probing.

“Now, did you feel tempted at all? How did you feel watching him drink the glass?”

I let his voice die out and the question dissolve in the silence. Then, I carry on.

“So I went ahead and made myself one, too. And then another one for him and for me, and then another one… You know the drill.”

Ari nods. He does. Before he could say anything, I continue.

“We left the house at a certain point and ended up at some sort of techno bar down on the corner of Bowery and Houston. It was almost empty, barely anyone in there. We got a round by the bar and then…” I bite my lips. “…and then it happened again.”

I zone out once more as I tell the rest of story robotically, almost as if I wasn’t a part of it. Instead, I feel as if I’m an outside observer, a part of a movie theater audience, watching the scene unravel before me. I can hear my voice as I talk, but in my head, the film starts playing. The spotlight is on two people, a guy, and girl, in their mid-20s’. They walk in, clearly drunk, maybe even on something more than just alcohol. They start dancing on the empty dance floor, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes. They seem in love; he’s twirling her around, she’s shaking her hips seductively, slowly. He whispers something in her ear and suddenly her face expression changes. She screams something at him, her eyes start to shine, there’s a teardrop on her cheek. The manner of their dance is different now — it’s like a fight. He steps back but continues to hold onto her arms, just a little stronger than he should have. She doesn’t look at him and tries to pull away. He doesn’t let her, forcing her closer to him. They perform the war-like dance back and forth — him pulling her closer, her trying to pull away. Suddenly, he raises his arms and shoves her. She loses her balance and falls to the ground. No-one approaches them, no-one’s there to see. He grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her to stand up and follows her drunken zig-zag walk towards the exit of the club. They both leave. The spotlight disappears. The song ends, the club lights shut down, the curtain of the movie theater closes.

I zone into the room again. I’m tired, I don’t want to talk anymore. Ari waits for me to add a final comment before our session ends but I don’t. I don’t think I need to do. We both know the ending.

*********************************************************

I step out of Ari’s office onto the corner of Broadway and 80th. It’s 5:42 PM and the sun has just gone down on New York City, the night hugging the streets with a cozy blanket. I start walking back home, starting a route that’s been basically hardwired into my brain: 7 blocks down until I get to 72nd, 2 minutes of walking to the right and there it is — 130 West 72nd Street, New York City, also known as my way too small but way too expensive one-bedroom studio. I am ready for my feet to lead me forward mechanically, while my brain shuts off and I get lost in my thoughts, forgetting about the world around me. But my moment of ultimate mindlessness has been interrupted by a wet touch of rain on my cheek. And then another one. And then another one.

I am suddenly present again — I snatch the purse off my shoulder and frantically shove my right hand into it. Where the hell is my umbrella? I pray I’ll eventually feel its plastic, sleek material, yet my prospects do not seem very bright — my hands have found nothing but the sharp covers of notebooks and a sticky mush from a crushed banana. The rain is getting heavier and heavier and my clothes wetter and wetter.

I spot a shelter next to me: an illuminated bookstore with a bright yellow shield that catches my eye amongst the dark streets. “Westside Café and Bookstore” — the shield reads in black, capital letters. I enter through wide glass doors and stand at the entrance for a second, allowing myself to enjoy NOT being amidst an intense rainfall in low 40s weather. What a wonderful life.

Unsure of what to do with myself, I decide to get a coffee. I stroll through the rows and columns of people and books until I get to the very back of the store. That’s where I find the little café area. The shelves with books are now replaced by four crammed mini round tables with a couple of plastic chairs. Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” is playing through the black speakers hanging on the corners of the ceiling. A marble kitchen counter with a cash register on top stretches to my left. I catch the eyes of the barista standing behind it, a bored-looking guy with shoulder-length brown hair and mustache so thin he could pass for another Salvador Dali. He’s got one small hoop earring in his left ear and a tattoo written in Chinese characters on his bicep.

Can you try harder to be hipster, please.

He nods towards me as I make my way over to the counter, signaling he can take my order.

“A double espresso, please,” I say, putting down a $5 bill before him. “To go, if you could,” I add and take out my phone as I wait. My screen lights up. One new text from Chris. “I’m sorry. Can we talk?”. The blue iMessage blurb stares at my face, posing me a dare. What are you gonna do now? — it asks me provocatively.

I bite the red nails on the fingers of my left hand as I mute my phone with my right hand. I look around the café, trying to distract my thoughts.

Stevie Wonder is onto his chorus now.

When you believe in things that you don’t understand
Then you suffer
Superstition ain’t the way, yeh, yeh

“Here you go.” The tattooed barista winks at me as he gives me my double espresso to-go. I can tell he’s trying to feel out if he should make a move on me. I flash him a smile and nod pretentiously, hoping that clearly signals “not interested”. I turn around, getting ready to head out when I hear someone calling my name.

“Monica?” The sound of her voice hasn’t changed: it still sounds as if someone gave a voice to a smile. “Monica, is that you?”

I turn around. There she is. Anna. She looks a bit different than when I saw her our last day of college, five years ago. Different, yet still familiar. She still has that flirtatious gaze beaming from her cat-like green eyes; she still has that dark brown, luscious afro that has made strangers stop and compliment her; she still has that contagious smile that has gotten her so many free drinks at our local college bar. But something about her demeanor changed. She seems less wild now, less rebellious. Instead of her usual ripped, black pants and a provocatively short crop top, she’s wearing a long-sleeved grey V-neck, elegant dark jeans and knee-high black boots. Instead of leather bracelets on her wrists, she now has a small, golden watch. And there is something else I notice: a ring on her left hand.

“Anna!” I exclaim back. How long it’s been! We haven’t seen each other since graduation, despite being good friends at Berkley. After graduation, she stayed in San Francisco to work at some fancy art gallery downtown and I flew over here, chasing my dream of one day becoming the next head exhibit at the Whitney. We just never managed to keep in touch. Life.

She takes a step forward and approaches me for a hug. We come together in an embrace. It’s an embrace of college friends that have lost touch, an embrace of people that used to stay up all night, drunkenly sharing their deepest secrets, but now are barely strangers.

After separating, and a couple of “it’s so nice to see you”s and “wow, it’s been so long”s, Anna shoots me an intense, piercing glare. I know she’s trying to gauge what happened — what happened to that girl she used to know, with sparkling eyes, a loud laugh and vibrating creative energy. Why are her eyes bloodshot? Why are her hands trembling uncontrollably? Why does she smell like rum at 6 PM on a Monday?

“So…so, how have you been, Monica? What’s new, how’s everything?” I know she’s asking because she knows. She’s always had a unique talent for sensing other people’s emotions. She knows I’m not doing well.

“Ahh, yes, I’m good, all good!” I lie. I immediately continue talking before she has time to probe me some more. Oh, the skills you learn in the therapy room. “I still paint, occasionally, but during the day, I work at the Whitney. Just got promoted to manager actually, so that’s exciting.” I flash her the most convincing smile I can, hoping she’ll buy that I’m actually excited.

“Oh, wow, congrats!” Anna exclaims and I can genuinely see she’s happy for me. Good job, Monica, you’ve convinced her you’re not miserable. “Look at you go!”

“Thanks, I’m excited.” Another forced smile. “But what about you? I didn’t know you lived in New York. When have you moved over to the East Coast from San Francisco?”

“Oh right, San Fran — loved it there, honestly, the people, the weather…” Anna gasps, looking to the side. I can imagine she’s picturing the city in her head now — maybe she’s imagining the Golden Bridge? Maybe a tram while it drives down the steep hills? “It was seriously great. But then me and Jake…” She notices the confused look on my face and laughs.

“Oh, right, you don’t know who Jake is! Jake, my husband.” She does this gesture that nearly every newly married woman does. She takes her left hand up, palms facing inwards and lingers her fingers back and forth, letting her wedding ring shine. I feel a warm current sprinting down my body. It’s jealousy.

Anna’s flashing me a proud smile now, waiting for my reaction.

“Wow, it’s beautiful! Congratulations!” I respond with excitement. As one should. “Is this a new thing? How long have you been married for?”

“Just a little over a year. Who knew I’d be one of the first ones getting married, huh? Crazy.” She shakes her head in disbelief and I actually do, too. Anna was never a long-term relationship type. A free spirit, a rebel, a proud (and visible) supporter of the free the nipple movement, Anna switched guys, and girls, left and right.

“Well, I guess you never know. Things do seem to take a weird turn after a college.”

“I know, right? We actually have a new addition to the family, too.” I can feel my heart beating faster and faster. I hope what she’s going to say next isn’t going to be… “Her name’s Jenny, she’s just three months old.” There it is. “That’s also why I’m here.” She pulls out a book from her purse. There is a crawling, smiling toddler on its cover and a big title: Parenting Without Borders.

I don’t say anything. I can’t force myself to. Anna is a parent. Even Anna, the Anna that always claimed that she’d never wanted kids, that parenthood is overrated, that she’ll happily live her life childless. And yet, here we are. She — just moved from California, has a husband and a three-month-old baby girl. I — just came from a therapy session, have an alcohol addiction and a life-long regret over what happened.

Anna doesn’t seem to notice my silence. Right there and then, her phone starts ringing. We both turn our gaze to her purse. She takes it out, looks at the screen and then at me with an apologetic look on her face.

“Sorry, it’s Jake, just a sec.” I nod in response.

I watch her pick up the phone. “Yeah, sure honey, I’ll be right there. Just a sec, ran into an old friend.” She looks at me and flashes me a grin from the side. I take my phone out of my purse, too, trying to avoid just staring at her blankly. Two missed calls from Chris. “Okay, bye for now, bye, love you.” Anna continues.

She hangs up and takes the phone away from her ear.

“Sorry for that, he’s needy sometimes…” I nod again and manage to force a tiny smile. Anna’s still holding her phone in her hand and I turn my gaze to its shining screen as it lights up again with a new message. Anna follows my gaze. “Ahh speaking of, there she is! Our little baby girl, wanna see?”

Without waiting for an answer, she stretches her hand towards me, showing me her phone’s wallpaper. It’s Jenny. She’s beautiful. She’s laying down in her crib, dressed up in a small, pink onesie and has a polka dot bow tied on her head. She’s laughing and looking to the side, showing off her toothless grin. Pure happiness.

I struggle to maintain a smile on my face. Anna keeps talking. “That was two months ago, she was four months old. Looks a little different now, her hair grew out a little longer and…”

I zone out, muting the sound of Anna’s voice. I want to scream. I want to tell her. I want to tell her that could have been me, too. That could have been me, showing off pictures of my new-born baby girl to my old college friends. I want to tell her that I almost had a baby girl, too.

Almost.

“You’re not going to have it, are you?” I immediately hear Chris’s voice in his head after I show him the pregnancy test with a plus on it. “You can’t just ruin our life like that”.

Now, who’s ruined who, I think.

I tune back into reality, into Anna’s voice.

“… and it turns out she was just trying to stand up!” she finishes her sentence off, laughing happily. She must have just told a funny story about Jenny, something she expects me to laugh at. So I force an awkward chuckle, hoping that it will suffice and she won’t be offended. “Anyway, I do have to run — my babysitter’s only in till six thirty. Let’s catch up, though? Please? I’ll shoot you a message!” she exalts, too hurried to notice that I haven’t said much in a while. I’m glad.

She gives me a hug, I mumble a good-bye and she storms off. I watch her disappear amidst the mini-roundtables of the coffee shop, amidst the bookshelves, amidst the chaos of the Westside Café and Bookstore. I imagine her coming back home, to Jenny. Maybe she’s laying her crib now, mumbling out words that no-one but her understands. Or maybe she’s crying because she’s hungry? Maybe she’s sleepy? Maybe something hurts her, she has a stomachache?

I squeeze the paper cup of my, now cold, double espresso. I cannot fight my tears. Here, in the café area of Westside Café and Bookstore, next to the hipster, tattooed barista, I feel myself breaking down. One after the other, like the raindrops outside, I can feel the warm touch of tears flowing down my cheeks.

That could’ve been me. If it weren’t for Him.

I don’t pay attention to the people around me. I think of my baby girl, of feeling her, feeling her whole body, her heart, when she was still a part of me. I think of the memory of laying down in that hospital room, disgusted with myself, disgusted with the whole world, disgusted with Him.

I take out my phone and, with my hands trembling, dial Chris’s number.

Beeep. First signal.

I can feel my heart punching my chest from the inside. I’m terrified of what how I’ll phrase it, what I’ll say, how he’ll react.

Beeep. Second signal.

It’s still raining outside. Do I just say “I can’t do this anymore”?

Beeep. Third signal.

I’m almost by the exit now. What if he won’t let us go? Will I have to leave the city?

Beeep. Fourth sig…

There is a weird sound on the other side of the line, like a paper shuffling. Two, maybe three seconds pass, feeling like an eternity. Then I hear His voice.

“Monica?”

We open a bottle of wine and start chatting — typical small talk. We share how our day has been, we ask each other if all our work is done for tomorrow. We continue chit-chatting for a while, switching topics between the gossip from last weekend, Trump’s government shutdown and how artificial intelligence is going to change the job market we’re about the enter.

We open another bottle of wine. A 2017 Merlot from Trader Joe’s bought for $6.50. We’re laughing more now. The gossip gets juicier, the political views more pronounced and the technology discussion more irrational.

Someone rolls a joint. We all take a few puffs. I feel myself slowly relaxing in my chair, leaning back. The topic by the table switches to football. European football. Ekhem, soccer. My other female friend and I go quiet. We don’t know much about football, besides who Messi and that Real Madrid seems to be kind of good... I guess? I watch them as they exchange the names of different players, talk about the recent games, try to predict the future outcomes of championships… I want to pitch in but I simply don’t know. It’s not that it doesn’t sound interesting. I just never took an interest, never thought of taking an interest. Why would I?

I lock eyes with my female friend, sitting next to me.

“I was meaning to tell you… Your top looks great. Where did you get it?”

The rest of the night we talk about Zara’s new collection and the guys talk about Chelsea’s new players.

Later that night, still a bit high and tipsy, I analyze the evening. I toss and turn on my bed, not being able to fall asleep. Why is it that we don’t know much about football? Why is it that the guys don’t know much about fashion? That they don’t find it that interesting?

A reflection strikes me. What we find interesting isn’t what we actually find interesting. It is a reflection of a social norm. Since men were gatherers and hunters in the past it is quite obvious that sports, a competitive and physical discipline, has become interesting for males. And since women took care of children and family life, it is quite obvious that fashion, an artistic and socially-driven discipline, has become interesting for females.

That realization, while might be obvious for some, sparked some important reflections in me. What does it mean “to be interested”? Does it actually mean we are interested or is it a result of the social norms that we are facing? Knowing that I’m just a product of what has been a natural consequence of some role in a society provoked some sort of identity crisis in me. Am I even a product of myself? Or a product of something I’ve been taught to like?

Most importantly, what does that mean for the current society where the roles are not that clear? Men are no longer only the gatherers, women are no longer only the caregivers?

As I began writing this, I was hoping to gain some sort of answer to the question that I myself posed. It didn’t happen. Instead, I’m leaving you with a thought that has kept me up, hoping that one of you might help me understand what does it mean when I say he likes football and I like fashion.