Post Love Thirty Four
I didn’t see Mary for two or three months after our Valentine’s encounter. It was to be expected. She had ventured too deep into things and retreated completely. I tried to stay in touch, but it was painful. She was distant. She was busy. Eventually, she agreed to meet up with me for dinner. Ofcourse, Mary was a scatterbrain, a confused mess of a girl incapable of planning anything, sticking by any plans made by anyone, or saying no to anyone. She cancelled last minute, rescheduled, got a new phone and lost all her numbers including mine, and finally asked if I wanted to come to her friends birthday party instead. No, Mary. I do not want to join you, a girl I haven’t seen this season, into a room full of strangers across town. Maybe if you hadn’t already made this all so complicated and exhausting, I would have accepted. But this is too much. Either we go for dinner or we don’t.
Miraculously, Mary showed up. She even brought me a small gift to apologize. I had gotten through to her. And for a moment, she was the best. We sat on the couch, smoked weed, talked, laughed, all the wonderful things between two people that enjoy the simple presence of eachother. There was something about having her in the room. She blended in, stood out, perfectly in balance with my world if ever so briefly. And like a bubble in the spring breeze, I followed her along in awe.
We made our way out the front door and into the street, high and hungry and happy. She was playing with her new phone as we walked, brand new out of the box, distracted young woman. We got to the junction in front of the restaurant and waited for the lights to turn. I saw two bikes slow down in the corner of my eye, so naturally it turned and looked up at the girl on the bike. We recognized eachother in mutual silence, since I had noticed the guy beside her as she had noticed Mary beside me, all in the flowing motion of my head turning to them, their bikes slowing down towards Mary and I starting up towards the restaurant. Still within the same second, the light turned, my foot lifted itsself forward, and my thoughts were with the girl because I had flirted with her in the bookstore she worked at, and I didn’t want her to think I had a girlfriend, even though the guy could have been her boyfriend, that was of a lesser concern to me. My foot dropped into a ditch, even though I had crossed this intersection a thousand times, my mind was occupied with women and failed to remind my foot of the ditch. Perhaps it thought my foot should know about the ditch by know. It landed sideways, shot pain up into my ankle, which caused my knee to buckle. I lost my balance and fell forward into the street. Mary screamed as I landed on my knee. The girl from the bookstore was watching, and her guy, and a handful of people in cars that were merely looking in front of them. Some passersby, someone waiting at the other side of the crosswalk. Mary had jumped after me, but never made it all the way over. I got up quickly, embarassed, turned around, skipped my gaze past the girl, and saw Mary holding her phone. I muttered a few short sentences covering up the situation, a horrible bland of physical pain, embarassment, and a new pang of guilt. The phone was smashed. The brand new phone, not a day old, wrecked. “Did I do that?”. “Yes!”. In my fall, my arms had flailed, my hand had smacked the phone out of her hand, up into the air, and gravitiy did the rest for me. The situation was worsening by the second. I needed to go. I started to cross and told her to come on. I couldn’t stomach the idea of waiting on that corner any longer, letting the lights switch back, having the girl start up on her bike in slow motion, with all the cars riding by with the passenger side closest to us, conveniently, allowing the passengers a good look at a smashed phone, an upset italian girl, ripped jeans, blood, embarrassment, anger, confusion, self hatred. How did this happen? What did I do? How was I the bad guy? How did that happen? I fled the scene and told her to come on. I knew it seemed like I didn’t care about her phone. I knew it was a bad idea. I knew this was it. I was a public embarrassment, a destroyer of property, a selfish thug, a helpless stoner, a no good son of a bitch.
The phone still worked. I apologized. I ordered food. She said she wasn’t hungry anymore and got a tea. This was it. Punishment. She was going to make me eat in front of her, make me enjoy flavor on weed as she watched, because I was a selfish bastard whose hunger was not supressed by drama. It was delicious. Fuck you. I didn’t do it on purpose. You’ve been much shittier to me than some scratches on a phone.
She still talked, and I calmed down, and pulled out all the charms and wits and didn’t stop until I made her laugh. I pulled us out of the sheer misery, but there was no way back to the top. This wasn’t going anywhere. Mary pressed buttons on her phone, sighed, and told me that her friend was upset with her for ditching her birthday party. She said she had to go. I wasn’t invited this time. Was she ditching me for a party, or was she just ditching me? Mary’s erratic behaviour, her mess of stories and plans and bullshit, it made her come off like a liar. Mary was back. She’d been away for a moment, when we were in the couch and everything was nice. But she was back already. The Mary I knew and hated. I walked her to the subway, gave her a hug, wondered if I should kiss her, and off she went. I watched her tall, thin frame carry her misery down the steps. Her long, thin legs moving her ass step by step slowly down until I couldn’t see her anymore.
