by Ana Simons
Olivia doesn’t reply immediately, instead, she looks up with a serious and pensive expression on her face.
“Olivia?”
“Oh Brian, look at you. You’re probably the last guy on earth who would understand what I’m going through.”
“Why don’t you try me?”
“Can you tell me why apparently all men think marriage is for suckers?” She reaches for a pillow, which she puts on my lap and fluffs a bit before she rests her head down again.
When she turns on her side and wraps her arms around herself, I pull a blanket off the back of the sofa. “Let’s cover up all this hotness. I really don’t want to look at it. I feel like a poor kid whose candy has been stolen.”
She responds with a playful eye-roll and snuggles into the fleece covering.
“All comfy in there?” I adjust the blanket around her shoulders. “I’m almost jealous of the damn thing.” I try to act in a light-hearted manner, pretending I’m not affected as much as I actually am.
“Don’t be silly!”
“It’s not all of us, Liv. I’m the only one who hasn’t taken the plunge, everyone else has. And as far as I know, none of them had a gun pointed at their head.”
She turns around again and flashes me an inquisitive look. “How come you don’t want to meet someone who makes you feel she’s the one? That your life would be so much better if she were part of it?”
I know that feeling. Too damn well.
A long time ago, Olivia was the first thing I thought of when I woke up, and the last thing when I fell asleep. She was my entire world, for her I would have moved mountains.
I was just a kid, but at the time I took it very seriously and felt totally devastated when she put an end to it. I felt my world had collapsed. And I continued to feel like that during the following two years, or maybe more, I don’t recall anymore. It was probably during that time that I started to develop my selective memory skills.
“Because the idea of spending your life with the same person up until the day you kick the bucket is frightening as hell?” I ask, playfully, and then reach for her hand to lace my fingers with hers. “It’s not a question of wanting it or not. I’ve been focused on other things.”
“But why? Why couldn’t I make that prick commit? First, he had gotten out of a bad relationship, then it was bad timing, then he was not ready, not in the right place yet...”
“Does Mr Prick have a name?”
“Filipe never actually proposed. Eventually, I got fed up with all that bullshit-talk and told him I wouldn’t date him for the seventh year. He always knew I’d want to start a family at some point; I wasn’t going to waste my time anymore on someone who was unwilling to commit. Either we moved in together or he could get himself a one-way ticket to Prickville.”
“You cornered him?” I swallow a chuckle, restless fingers threading through her hair again.
“I did. That dickhead had his back against the wall and finally agreed to it. ‘Okay then, we should settle on a date,’ he told me. Just like that. After an argument in the meds room. As romantic as a clyster shoved up your bum. That’s every girl’s dream...” She sighs in frustration.
My finger slides down to draw circles on her forehead, further down to trace the corners of her mouth. I brush her lips, wanting to kiss them again. But her mind is miles away, I don’t think she even notices it. Instead, she shoots me another quizzical look and insists I give her some answers.
“Why? Why is it such a scary thing, to commit?”
“I don’t know. What if I pick the wrong person? What if she changes into something I hate? What if she’s not the one, but the one is still out there waiting for me? I truly don’t know... it’s complicated.”
She frowns and looks at me with narrowed eyes, a deep stare that penetrates mine. “So, you just keep it simple? With what? One-night stands? With hook-up friends or something? What do you do the next morning? You slip away with as little fuss as possible?”
I don’t quite know how to answer her questions, but I guess she assumes my silence is a ‘yes’.
This conversation is becoming awkward. I feel I’m being psyched and, even worse, this is not something I’d discuss with a woman, much less with an ex-girlfriend I haven’t seen in ages.
“But don’t you get tired of it? Of no-strings-attached flings? Don’t you get bored with all the useless small-talk? When you know beforehand you won’t ever be with that person? I bet the sex isn’t even great. It can’t be: people have to know each other well, otherwise they screw that up too!”
I just shrug and smile. She’s right, it’s one thing doing it with someone you really care about, a very different situation ending up in the bedroom with some girl after the club has closed. The latter is only about sex, the former is about much more than that.
“But isn’t it such a meaningless experience? Sex without love?” she asks.
“I guess Woody Allen explained it wonderfully, and I’m not even a great fan of the man. ‘Sex without love is indeed a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go, it’s a pretty damn good one’.”
After a laugh and an eye roll, “Idiot!”
Can’t really explain it, but instinctively I lift the pillow and bend to kiss her on the forehead. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But it will, someday, with some other guy. With someone who actually deserves you.”
“God, how many frogs must a girl kiss before she finds a decent guy?” Another laugh – my guess, to hide the hurt inside –, and she holds my hand against her face, pressing a kiss to my fingertips.
The feel of her lips tugs me back in time and an electrifying sensation rushes through my body. For a moment, I am the nineteen-year-old me who’d do anything to make her pain go away.
Except, I’m not that guy anymore. But she’s still my friend, and regardless of what might have happened, she always will be.
“So, you want a quality guy, right?”
“I’m not getting any younger here!” She winks, an amused smile escaping her lips as she snuggles her body into mine.
My pulse quickens all over again. Fighting to contain the confusing emotions running riot inside me, I suck in a silent deep breath before I drape one arm across her shoulders and pull her even closer.
“Okay, let me tell you about guys who’re only playing the field, the kind you don’t want to waste your time with. The bastards you should keep at a safe distance. Want to listen to my crap?”
“If it’s free.”
“First rule of thumb: ditch weekenders. You immediately want to dump the guy who forgets about you during the week and only calls when he needs someone for his weekend chill-out programme. Got that?”
“Taking a mental note.” A yawn escapes her mouth. “Sorry...”
“Close your eyes. Just listen.”
She assents.
“Number two.” I bury my hands in her hair, moving my fingers in circles. “You don’t want to be around the scumbag who’s only making plans with you for the next weekend, and not for the next year. Same thing if he doesn’t hang out with you on a Sunday afternoon. You deserve more than a guy who just wants to meet up at a pub on a Friday evening and shag right after.”
“Who are you describing, Brian Anderson?”
I ignore the sardonic smirk that quirks her mouth. She may think she knows me, but she doesn’t know the entire truth.
“You want to spend your time with a guy who remembers all the things you told him about yourself. Those who just want to have fun, trust me on this, they’ll have to think hard to remember your last name.” My fingers move to rub her temples with soft, smooth strokes. “And you should stay away from the blithering idiot who doesn’t call you his ‘girlfriend’ and who wants to keep things casual. This is also the kind who will never give you his Wi-Fi password.”
She hums, faintly.
“A guy who really cares for you wants to know all about you, about your baggage. And he’ll do his best to make
you happy. He will call you, text you, he’ll go after you, he’ll find a way to let you know how important you are to him. The kind you want to avoid just wants to have fun, has no clue of your life and doesn’t want to know either. That’s none of his business as far as he’s concerned.”
Olivia’s breathing is long and heavy now. I slide my thumb along the edge of her jaw, studying and tracing the contour of her face.
“And you don’t want a know-it-all either, who’s never vulnerable around you, who’s not willing to show you his weaknesses, what troubles him. If he wants you around only for the fun part and nothing more, then he won’t ever take you seriously. Understood?”
She doesn’t reply.
She’s fallen asleep.
I wiggle from behind her head, careful not to wake her, adjust the pillow and tuck her under the blanket. After turning off the ceiling light, I give myself another moment to observe her, her face shadowed in the flimsy brightness of the table lamp.
It’s almost two in the morning. I’m tired too, but it’s no use, it’s stronger than me – I can’t leave her and go to bed.
I sit on the edge of the sofa and watch her sleep, so quiet, with her hair spread across the pillow. I follow each breath, listen to each unintentional sigh, the realisation that after tomorrow we won’t see each other soon again leaving me even more restless and confused.
Next thing I know, I’m heading to my office to grab a sketchbook and a handful of pencils. I rarely do this anymore, but I want to perpetuate this moment, to preserve this memory of her.
Back in the living room, I sit on the couch near the light and study her features for a while, mentally defining each line, each position.
I start off with a few rough strokes, sketching the shape of her face. Pressing the carbon pencil into the paper, I begin to define the jaw and hairline, then draw her closed eyelids and eyebrows. Then her nose, her freckled nose. Her mouth, her full beautiful lips. I rub some bits, make her lips more accurate, more perfect. I study her hair, the way it flows across her forehead, and then bring it to the paper, with its slight waves tumbling over her neck, over her shoulder. Finally, a few shades to give it shape and some final touches.
Not bad, I conclude, as I hold the paper back to assess it, my gaze shifting from the drawn lines to the woman sleeping on my sofa–
The unexpected sound of the doorbell cuts through the silence. Olivia turns over but, apparently, the dinging tone doesn’t wake her up. I immediately rush to the intercom before another ring brings her back from her sleep.
12 HONESTY
THE ALARM CLOCK on the nightstand reads 3:15 a.m. and my mind can’t stop racing.
What a mess, what a sodding mess!
In all seriousness, they should raise a statue to the guy who finally cracks the code to the female mind. Women are indeed a complete mystery, even Stephen Hawking said so, and everyone knows the guy is a genius. We might as well be realistic, when the man who knows all about black holes and quantum mechanics doesn’t get it, the rest of us are pretty much doomed.
Take honesty, for example. Everyone says it’s an important virtue, one that reveals strength of character, right?
Wrong.
For crap’s sake, why do people ask the obvious but then go apeshit if we don’t tell them what they want to hear? Why do we have to be downright insensitive bastards every time we’re sincere? How can they demand honesty, if they can’t handle the ugly truth?
I roll over again and try to force myself to sleep.
On the bright side, it seems I’ve survived this miserable day. I’m in my bed, still in one piece, which is surprising, to say the least. Olivia is still sleeping on the sofa, admirably oblivious to the bungled mess of epic proportions that almost happened.
But my thinking mind just won’t shut down…
It was Josephine who was on my doorstep. When I came down, even before I opened the front door, the taxi that had brought her was already turning the corner and driving away.
“Jo, what are you doing here this late?”
“I would have told you I was coming, but then it wouldn’t be a surprise!”
I nodded, speechless.
“I thought it’d be nice if you offered me a drink.”
“It’s been a long day. I was about to go to bed,” I told her flatly.
With a sort of begging pout, she insisted, “Just one. Then I’ll go. Unless you want me to stay, of course.”
She gave me a flirty wink as she tried to push open the front door.
I blocked her.
“I’m sorry if I got a bit carried away this afternoon. But I really need to tell you something.”
“What?” I asked.
“Here?”
“Like I said, it’s late. I’m calling for a taxi and tomorrow we’ll talk, all right?”
“It’s about last night.”
“What about last night?” I ran my hand through my hair, impatient.
She began fidgeting with her hands. “It’s you, it’s us. I’ve been thinking a lot about us, about our relationship. You know when they say, men and women can’t be just friends? They’re probably right... You know me, I’m not one to cover up my feelings. I need us to talk about it.”
“What?!”
“Come on, Brian, this is awkward. Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to continue this conversation some other time.”
A mixture of frustration and anger clouded her features. “What the hell? You’re sending me away?”
“I’m politely asking you to leave. I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.”
“You’re not alone, are you?”
I remained impassive. “Tomorrow, Jo.”
Then she totally snapped, swearing at me, calling me every name in the book. Because I didn’t call her back. Because I never call. Unless I need a shoulder to cry on.
That was a low blow. It’s true, I’d invited her for a drink last night, at bloody two in the morning. For some stupid reason, I’d also opened up my life a bit to her before she passed out on the sofa.
I tried to calm her down, always fearing that dreadful instant neighbours start to shout back and switch on lights. Or even worse, call the police. But she sat down on the entrance steps, insisting she wouldn’t leave until the woman inside my apartment got out. Because she should know too, how much of an asshole I am.
Had she gone completely insane?
After some time, I finally made her see the entire scene was absurd. That for everyone’s sake, I’d better take her home. Which I did.
The moment we stopped in front of her house, I told her, “We can talk for a little while in the car. I’m not coming in.”
“Please, look at me.”
Anticipating a difficult conversation, I dragged a hand through my hair before I turned to face her.
“I’ve come to realise we all need somebody, one special somebody. And I think that person might be you. You’re such a good friend, but maybe I want more.”
“Jo, you’re a fun person to hang out with.” At least until today. Before all the crazy temper outbursts. “But the things is…”
“Please, be honest. Tell me what I mean to you”, she urged me, her begging eyes transfixed on mine.
“I’ve got enough stress in my life. With my job, family issues. You don’t add to it. You’re laid back, don’t let little things bother you. You’re a drama-free zone! That’s nice.”
“But?” she asked, her hand tightening around mine.
“You’re an exceptional woman. I like you. But I think we should stop seeing each other for a while. I can’t give you more. I’ve got nothing to give you.”
“But, babe–”
“You deserve to be with someone who can give you exactly what you need and–”
“But I don’t want anyone else. I want you!”
“–and that person isn’t me. I’m sorry, Jo.”
Well, apparently, honesty is not the best policy indeed. The only thing it
brought me was an I’d-fucking-shoot-you-in-your-sleep-if-I-could-get-away-with-it deadly stare and a resounding ‘Go fuck yourself!’. It’s still echoing around my head. That, before she stormed out and slammed the door, yelling that I’m a nasty prick who for sure will rot in hell.
Thank God this day is over.
13 ONE OF A KIND
THOUGH PALLID, the morning light illuminates the room and spills across my face. My half-conscious brain registers the discomfort and I roll over in bed.
Struggling against the haze, I crack open one eye and squint at the clock on the nightstand. Almost ten and, damn, my head is swimming, every muscle hurts.
With last night’s events flooding my mind, I sink back into my pillow willing my mind to shut down and let me go back to sleep.
But then it reaches me: the music coming from the living room, along with the smell of coffee.
Olivia.
A hard rush of adrenaline propels me out of bed, and I hurry for the door. I’d almost forgotten I’m not alone.
Dear Lord, please, make it like in the films! Let her be wearing nothing but some old see-thru t-shirt of mine, swinging her backside to the music.
Wait, the shower’s running.
Then let her come out with just a tiny towel around her, that’ll do just fine too!
Get a grip, mate.
All right.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down, drumming my fingers impatiently on the armrest, listening to the soulful, crooning voice drifting through the house.
Nice.
I turn the music louder with the remote, loud enough to make her aware I’m already here, waiting for her. Scrubbing my face with both hands, I spin slowly on the swivel couch. My knee is bouncing up and down in tiny jumps, a damned nervous twitch that makes me even wonkier. I make it stop, but my hand resumes its drumming.
This flutter in my gut is unbearable, I need to find meaning in all that’s happening. Last night. My feelings. Her feelings. What the hell really happened to us back then. What her version of our story is.