Because I care
We met after 99 days of not meeting. I let you decide when you would be ready.
I arrived 10 minutes late because I missed a connecting train. You arrived 45 minutes late because you hadn’t realised your only option was the bus due to planned engineering works. I laughed because I once told a friend that you were almost always late, but only on time when I ran late; there are always exceptions to the rule.
You looked your usual flustered self as you huffed and puffed into the park. I closed my book and listened quietly to your outpouring of transport mishaps, punctuated by alternating apologies and accusations of infrastructural incompetence. You tailed off after a few minutes. I let the silence settle between us.
You chose the sweater you always wear when you’re apologetic. I planned an outfit that I thought you’d like. You didn’t comment on it so I presumed it wasn’t worth your mention. I never knew what you thought of my clothes; it irked me that I should even care.
You ventured a question about my work. I hesitated; this would set the tone of the remainder of this afternoon. Did I want to fall back into our old patterns? Did I have anything else to offer? I remembered why you’d asked to stop meeting 99 days ago. I tried to change my tone: drop my cynicism, drop my resentment, drop my past self.
But my current self hadn’t much changed in 99 days. What did I really expect?
As the afternoon lazed on, I wondered if I would ever enjoy conversation with you again – conversation in which I would say what I wanted to say without a second voice in my head critiquing every sentence.
Then I realised I was making it all about me again, when this was really about you.
I blocked out everything and just listened to you – properly, as properly as I knew how to. I let you speak your every passage to its natural conclusion. I let you truncate my contributions when you were suddenly taken by an upcoming shopfront or a superior anecdote. I took it as an auspicious sign that perhaps this was you relaxed, no longer concerned with trying to impress or entertain. I only hope that I came across as the loyal friend that I wanted to be.
In your absence in the last 99 days, I’d decided several important things: I was never to start a family with you; I was never to build anything with you; I was never to expect to see you regularly; but I would be your most loyal and forgiving friend.
You held me for a long time as we said our goodnights. I knew it was the comfort of human contact you’d missed, not me in particular.
“See you in three to six months,” I ventured.
“It’ll be much sooner than that, I promise.”
I roll my eyes and turn away. Part of me wants this to be the last time I ever see you. Part of me can’t wait to see you again.
AK
