Pushed Through
“Do you?” she asked.
I sank into the sofa trying to find the words to answer. I sank so deep that it was no longer a matter of only getting away from her, but from everything else also.
Her question caused a shift; it forced a transition. Our relationship was brought through a door into an unknown liminal space.
“You reckon they’re gonna sort it out?” came from outside.
It was Alex’s voice. The y in you was muffled by the warm release of cigarette smoke.
He laughed.
‘I want to know that too.’
“So you don’t know?” she pushed.
Oh, I must’ve said that out loud.
“Just give me a moment to think,” I told her.
We were in the living room, her and I, together with the two red sofas — one of which had patches of Bacardi seeping into, whilst the other had me — and the small wooden table in between.
There were playing cards flung about, some near-transparent as they’ve been soaked in puddles of drink, some untouched. A Jenga tower stood tall in the middle of the table with a few pieces crawling at its base. One of the blocks poked out of a glass of Coke mixed with aaah who even cares anymore.
There’s nothing in particular about our relationship that I know or don’t know. I enjoy being in it as much as I’d enjoy being out of it. That’s not something she’d want to hear, so no point in thinking about it.
The lint in my pocket formed into nice clumps that rolled between my fingers as if tiny balls of clay.
My dad built that table out of a pear tree we used to have out in the yard. I don’t think he ever meant for it to be used in the way that it is right now.
“Could you please answer me?” she asked.
“Please,” I said, “you know it doesn’t come easy.”
“R-right.”
Tears thumped onto her arms. They dug into her skin like anchors burrowing through sand. Dum dum. Dum. Dum dum. They came out fast and sank deep, crawling, searching for a motive, perhaps, as to why she stuck around for so long. They couldn’t find anything. More tears came out to repeat the process. Dum. Dum Dum. They too, in search, hoping they’d be the ones to give her an answer.
“I don’t know,” I told her instead. “That’s it, I just don’t know.”
A door opened.
We were both still there: she, together with her tears, and I, half-way down into the sofa.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I simply don’t know.”
The door shut.
