La romance compliquée

I know that I’ve already written about The Guy, but my brain won’t stop churning out his image in my sleep nor in my waking moments.  Apparently there’s something I need to see that I’m simply not getting.

The guy.  That guy. La romance compliquée.  The Way.  The one that got away…?  Or the one that never was…

So, there’s no real easy way to tell this story, so I’ll just start at the beginning… and it’s not going to be pretty.

We’ll just say that a sexually tragic thing happened to me when I was twenty.  Are we all on board here?  Good.  Needless to say, I was not in the mood for members of the male persuasion.  At all.  This is important, so just bear with me.

I worked in a coffee house.  It’s years of vitality long since spent.  Sparse groups of people would only show up randomly.  Most of the time I sat at a table reading The Lord of the Rings while this meditation CD, Wind & Mountain played in the background; which is, I might add, the perfect music for that book.  I was twenty four at this time.

I’d recently become friends with this guy who had gone to school with my sister.  Nice guy.  He’d come in and hang out sometimes; drank a messa coffee.  Sometimes he’d bring his sister.  One time he brought a guy friend of his.  I already knew this guy who was my friend, he was not a threat, he was safe.  The other guy though?  I didn’t know him.  Didn’t want to know him?  Barely noticed him for his first ten visits.

I can’t remember exactly how it happened, but he just sort of folded into the fabric of us; the small group of people that I knew and would talk to.  One minute he’s simply playing pool in the other room or drawing in some notepad and the next he’s at the table in the midst of all the talkative action.

I’m not even certain anymore which incident was the first.  There was one time that a large group was at the table and everyone is talking or doing their own thing.  Dead Girl by Acid Bath came on the player and as if possessed he & I start singing it in perfect harmony to each other.  I don’t even remember us being seated directly beside each other on the bench, but we were.  Sang the entire song together.  Not very loudly, but apparently it was such an oddity that when it was over, we shook out of the trance and realized that everyone was looking at us both; slack-jawed.  He and I just went back to our personal endeavors.  I think he might have been writing, while I’d been drawing.

Another incident involved myself stating, nonsensically, that I wanted to be The Empress of Doom and that I would rule all.  In the lapse of a few seconds I went from proclaiming this to having The Guy and the guy friend fighting over who would get to be The Emperor.  “Well, I’m going to be her Emperor, of course”.  This was The Guy.  “Oh no, I’m going to be her Emperor.”  This was the friend.

Back and forth they went across the table.  At first I heard their dulcet tones and words float  into my ears, but I was busy dreaming up a Doomtastic abode and wardrobe and thinking on what my first decree would be, that I was only half paying attending.  Then, I was suddenly snapped out of it because the rabble of male voices was rather loud and fervorous.

“What are you two arguing about?”  Once they’d stated it, I recalled the entire back and forth they’d been having, and stated, “Well, then I shall have no Emperor!”  But, when they wanted to start arguing again I had to try a different tactic to get them to shut up.  “OK, I’ll have two Emperors.”  But, who would be the main one came the lament.  So, I flipped a coin.  “The Guy, you shall be First and Most Honored Husband (because he won the coin toss), and The Guy Friend, you shall be Second and Most Honored Husband.”

I know you always read or hear about girls who absolutely adore men fighting over them.  I’m not one of those girls.  I’d actually never had that happen before and I’ve never had it happen since.  But it unsettled me.  Part of me, I’ll admit, was happily baffled.  “Are… are they really fighting over me?”  “Oh Jesus Christ this is ridiculous” was my following thought, which is why I needed to put a stop to it.  But, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still recall that incident some times.

What did it all mean?  I would probably think that if my life were akin to a romantic comedy that it would mean they both totally dug me.  But, that’s not really how my life plays out, and well I don’t understand boys, so I don’t understand this.

Another time, I was on a way to a meeting.  It was a Sunday.  My dad and sister were in the car with me.  We were in the left hand turn lane and The Guy was in the straight lane right beside us.  He was fumbling on the floor for something.  I lightly honked the horn and when he looked up he was annoyed not seeing me, but then I waved and then he smiled this smile.  The type of smile that is blissful and comforted.  It was all over his face.

In that moment, I couldn’t help myself.  I smiled the same smile back because that is how he made my soul feel and I’d just allowed myself to realize it.  We just kept staring at each other for what felt like hours with the same goofy look on our faces; neither party wanting or willing to stop or look away; not even feeling the need to carry on with the day.  We probably could have stayed like that forever if it had been possible.

I was still conscious of other things though.  Like the fact that I could tell that my dad kept looking from me to The Guy and not liking this at all.  And my sister from the back seat wondering what strange loop she was caught up in.  She had to tap me on the shoulder to say it was time to drive away as the light had changed.  The Guy and I reluctantly broke our gaze and slowly traveled forward and away from each other; wishing we didn’t have to; knowing it was true because we kept turning back to find each other until it wasn’t possible to do so any longer.

Sometimes when he didn’t have a car, he would walk to work, and his path took him right by my house.  Well, he’s someone I know, so if I saw him and wasn’t busy I’d offer him a ride.  I would do this for anyone I know, but no one ever walks by my house.  This happened on a few occasions, but for one time in particular, is what I want to talk about.

I was listening to Opeth.  I was driving him to work.  The song Black Rose Immortal was on and it was getting to a part I loved and I said as much.  “Oh!  I LOVE this part!  You have to hear this!”  He laughed a little.  I still have no idea why.  Because I listened to Opeth?  It’s not like he didn’t also like Scream/Doom Metal.  Was it that I was giddily adorable like a little kid?  Was it a ‘she’s stupid’ laugh or a, ‘oh that’s adorable’ laugh?  Or… what?

He didn’t laugh when the part came on.  Sometimes I think he was so solemn in the passenger seat because of the one line, “At night I always dream of you.”  Only I didn’t dream of him at night and this bit in the song that I liked so much had nothing to do with him.  It was just the best part of the entire 20 minute long song to me.  Plus, it is one of the best bits of perfect music in my personal opinion.  I would have been excited for anyone to hear it.

The scant few lines are over and there’s melody and I say, “…and especially this scream.  I don’t know why, but it’s in my soul.”  It’s weird to say that you can feel people, but you can.  You know without facial expressions, words, or hand gestures, when different things happen in one’s own personal atmosphere.  When they are offended, happy, sad, etc.  I could feel him.  He felt the same as I did about that scream.  It was loss and heartbreak.  Lifetimes of it.  It felt familiar, personal.  And he could feel it too.

However, anyone else I have gotten to listen to that part can not feel anything off of it and all I can feel from them is boredom, annoyance, or a general feeling of they just don’t like this music and can’t get past their general dislike.

Of course my imagination runs wild, but why was he the only person to have the exact same reaction as me; the only one who those lines affected in that manner?  Is one of us Frobisher and one of us Sixsmith?  It’s a Cloud Atlas reference.  When I saw that film in the theatre; spoiler alert but here goes; when Sixsmith races upstairs to save Frobisher only to find him dead in the bathtub from a self inflicted gunshot wound, well all I could think about was that song, that scream, that feeling; that shared feeling.  It’s all that came rushing up to me in that moment.

Are we a pair of doomed lovers living lifetimes over and over again with one of us ending up dead and the other screaming in heartbreak and anguish?  The feelings we both felt, which I couldn’t describe at the time coherently, certainly fit that bill.  I felt it so strongly watching that film, that even if it isn’t The Guy, this scream pertains to me and someone over many lifetimes.

So, we’ll move on.  The Guy and I… we did the thing one night.  Just the one time.  Just the one night.  We were a little tipsy.  He acted first.  I actually paused to rationalize the scenario and think about it logically.  Am I willing to go through this?  Is anything holding me back?  Do I want to know what this is like, given freely instead of taken?  Is this a science experiment that I am willing to undertake?  The answer, obviously was yes.

Leaving out any descriptives, it was abysmal to say the least.  I didn’t enjoy it at all, but I had done so on my own terms, so I didn’t regret it.  However abysmal it was I absolutely loved it.  The intimacy.  And not for the reasons you’d think.  I disliked the physicality.  I loved the intimacy of our souls intertwining in those few precious and random moments.

Sitting on the edge of the bed together trying to have a polite conversation, having difficulty in hearing each other like we were an old married couple.  Him racing around his bedroom to show me anything of his he thought that I might like.  Him admitting to me that he had a photograph of me from the Halloween Party; admitting that when he’d walked in to the room he had been stunned by my beauty; by my mighty Chinese Empress regalia.  That he made me coffee and brought it to me, like we’d sipped coffee together in secret a million times before.

I want to say that I fell in love with him.  I feel like it’s something that I felt.  But never having known love in this lifetime, I’m remiss to put a claim on it.  I want to say that he had fallen in love with me as well.  But since that isn’t something that seems to happen, I’m hesitant to shackle him with a feeling he might not have ever had.

One night he tried to talk me out of whatever feelings he thinks I may have held.  He sat on the edge of his bed and told me that girls always fall for the bad guy.  I couldn’t help myself and piped up with, “But you’re not a bad guy at all.”  He exhaled a soft sigh as his mouth made a pained smile.  It’s true that while he seems like a bad guy, he isn’t it.  He knows it and he knew that I knew it.

But I’m unsure if his reaction was a moment of ‘but I think that I am…’ or if it was ‘of course you’d know who I really am and that’s a wonderful thing about you, but…’

He started talking about how little education he had and about his crazy father living in some distant woods.  I can’t actually remember if he said that he wasn’t good enough for me or if he said it without the actual words.  Regardless, he said it.  He was saying it.  He thought that I was too good for him, that I could do much better, that he wasn’t worth my energy, or dare I say, love.

I thought he was just like other guys; pushing me away because he disliked me so much.  Perhaps he was.  Perhaps he was pulling out all the stops to get me to run, screaming from his house.  I didn’t that night, but I soon would.

I kept trying to figure out what he was really telling me.  I wasn’t sure if I should stay or flee.  I dropped by a week later, actually looking for The Guy Friend.  The Guy said I could hang out with him if I wanted, but that in a little bit he’d be going out with a friend.    When the friend showed up she was this a-typical perfect beauty of a girl.  Curvaceous but thin, not small breasts with this dark, glossy perfectly coiffed hair.

I was confused and upset.  Guys don’t have gorgeous girls for just friends.  She’s gorgeous.  I’m not so much.  And now I felt like a fool.  He was trying to ditch me the other night because I was gross and I was too stupid to pick up the hints.  I must have showed my horror and panic stricken feelings all over my face, because the friend look confused and The Guy looked sad and upset.

I said, “OK, I got it.” and ran from his room and his house crying.  He actually ran after me, calling my name.  But I couldn’t see past the sting and hurt of the tears splashing down my face; my red hot cheeks, all of my pain.  I simply ran to my car and sped away as he ran to the street calling my name.

And that’s the last time we ever spoke.  Thirteen years ago.  It’s not a nice parting.  I tried not thinking about him.  I cried a lot.  Several months later my sister and I came home from the store and she said, “I have something to tell you.  The Guy was at the store when we were there.  I saw him looking at you.  He was watching you.  When he noticed me, he quickly left.”

My only question was “How was he looking at me?”

“He seemed lost in the moment.  Like he was somewhere else, but also he looked sad like he’d lost you.”

What is this supposed to mean?

Did he love me?  Does he love me?  Am I just some crazy delusional girl?

I’ve seen him out more than 10 times in the past years.  Once at the movie theatre with a pretty girl.  He looked pained.  It’s hard to describe, but not that he was caught because he can be with whomever he wants, but it really felt like, that he felt I deserved better than to see him with someone else.  Like it might hurt me and that was the last thing he wanted to do to me.

Other times at the store, but he seemed awkward like he didn’t want to see me.  The last time at the store, he saw me and then turned his head away to completely ignore me in an off-handed way like I wasn’t worth the time.

I hadn’t seen him since, until this past Sunday.  Now I can’t stop dreaming and thinking about him.  I don’t even know why.  It’s not like this sort of thing happened the other times I would see him out and about.  Seeing him would make me think about our past, but then I would recount everything and be done with it; moving on.

He was not a thin person when we knew each other.  He was stocky, but not overweight.  Now he is quite large.  Age has also not been too kind to him in the face.  However, I didn’t not find him unappealing at all when I saw him on Sunday.  It was a shock to see him after so long, and to see him changed so much, but I still thought he was rather fine looking.

However, I had stumbled upon him on Facebook a few years ago.  He’d just gotten married and he had a child.  If he’s still married then it’s bothersome that I would be thinking of a life we could have had together.  I would never be a home wrecker.  Ever.

Besides what life could we have had together?  Perhaps another or more times with him I would have enjoyed it, but as it stood, I hadn’t enjoyed it and people don’t generally get married if they’re not going to be having the sex together.

I can’t hold down a job, when I’m lucky enough to get one.  I can’t support myself.  Things have never worked out well for me in that department.  I never had any issue with him being a middle school drop out.  He wasn’t stupid, I could see that.  But middle school drop outs don’t become millionaires who can take care of their socially retarded and unfit for finding and keeping a job wife.

I don’t want to have children and I’m fairly certain that I’m not the marrying kind.  So, explain to me (it’s rhetorical, reader, and you do not have to answer that) why my brain is filling in the gaps of a life not lived with him?  Things that couldn’t and probably shouldn’t ever be?

Perhaps my brain is creating these night time dream scenarios because this is not finished.  Is it not finished because I’m holding on, even though I thought I had let go?  Is it not finished because he is still holding on?  Are we both still holding on?  Is it because there’s something I have missed in dismissing all of this too quickly; thinking I’m done when I’m not?  Will twenty years pass and we will end up in each others lives again?  For a short time?  For forever?  For closure?  Or will it be for love?

Perhaps simply writing this and hearing these songs again will be the end of it.  One can only hope I suppose.  I can not control the future and do not want to dwell on something that is only a random possibility in a sea of endless random possibilities.  Come what may, I’ll grab those horns when they come charging my way, but for now, I’d rather the dreams and the what if’s and the bitter disappointment and melancholy hollowness to pain me no more.

I’d also rather not wonder if he ever even loved me or if it pains him to see me still because I’m not his because there’s no good to come of dwelling on things I’ll probably never know.  Though for what it’s worth, I wish him great happiness in his life, no matter who he loves or what he does.

I do wish you well The Way.  And no matter what feelings, real or imagined, from our pasts or our futures, it’s time that I officially close this chapter that seems too good to put down; this chapter that I can not stop reading; this chapter of You.