By the intervention of friends that cared more for our friendship than ego and saving face allowed us to feel, but for their sake more so to buy their silence we sat have this talk.
It was the same dim bar the visage of us had visited many times. The same nines shown on the shades that covered the pendants lights that hang from the ceiling. Lending enough light that one could see where one was going, but creating shadows that obscured what was to come.
“Rooftop?” I asked staring at the crown on her head that motion no, shoulders that hunched I don’t know, but with lips that muttered words “Yeah, sure.”
I step to the side as usual and let her past. Years before ascending those stairs met I was going to get a drink or too many—followed by laughs and all at the expense of those around us. This time I would get something that life haven’t offered me before, a chance to say goodbye while still having the hope that I would see the person again.
“What do you want?” She asked in a familiar voice.
“Doesn’t matter.” I responded. She looked away and headed to the bar. Motioned her hand from to find a table.
In the corner with a view of the crowd, but in the shadows under a speaker where most of the conversation is drowned out usually, but tonight I hoped would fill the silence.
I heard a glass hit the table taking my eyes from my phone. I stared at the glass as the same yellowish-orange light glistened in the condensation of the glass. The music was alternative and playing very low. Low enough for me to hear “I don’t why I’m doing this. You hate me obviously have a problem with when I’m with some random guy.” She said as I straightened from hunched position to meet her gaze. A stern look I’ve seen before. The one she uses before she lectures about the slights that have accumulated until could no longer take them. Eyes half open, cold fixed gazed, with a hand blocking her cheeks and mouth as it holds a cigarette—the glow of the flame brightening as she takes a deep drag.
I waited from her free arm to fly aimlessly into the air to fall back to her side, but it didn’t so I said “Darling I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. Believe me I’ve tried—makes it easier to not miss you.” I said feeling my face returning a cold glare. Hoping my words conveyed the warmth I felt saying them.
“Then why do I feel like you hate me?” She asked ash-ing her cigarette. Her tone filled with justly felt vexation. I felt that same vexation the night that created the one we were currently dealing with.
“What you see is what you are feeling—I’m not seeking your attention, approval, or affections.” I said.
“Why? I don’t understand why you are being this why. We can just get over it and move on.” She said her voice softening.
“Because for me there is a story to be told that I want to tell.”
“Then take your pen that looks like a quill, and write it out. I don’t care to hear it.” She said putting a gulp from her drink and ash-ing the cigarette. Her face still showing that she did not want to be there. From that moment forth I just resolved to say how I felt and believe that I was talking to a younger her.
“Darling, if I were to dip my quill into the ink well that is my feelings for you—I’m afraid I would be deemed a jaded man writing tales of his youth.” I said seriously to her laughter.
“That sounds so dorky—ew.” She laughed. I wasn’t offended because that was our way handling the way we felt about each other. Or the way we expressed ourselves within our little circle.
“Well then this story, I’m going to tell will be very dorky.” I said not having touched my drink.
“Before you begin, can you get us another drink?” She smiled. I obliged with the hopes that Uncle Jack would help me to get her to listen to this tale I so desired to tell.
“Here you go.” I said setting the glass in front of her.
“Okay I’m listening. No wait…” She said as she lit another cigarette. “…Now begin.”
“There was a time in which a little boy walked into a random classroom after quitting football and being dragged into the classroom by some big black guy and saw a young woman who he had no clue he would get close to. Little did that little boy foresee would be the drinking at GW’s dorm during her freshmen year. Only to lose her through the madness that was life then, but she never lost contact and brought him back into her life—much to his benefit.
The discussions they would have about art, philosophy, and societal expectations, drunk as fuck before going to a party to drink more. The hung-over trips to galleries, the exploration of films, oh the things we have done together over the years makes it hard for me to let that time go. Nonetheless, in the background has been this search—on both parts for love. Or companionship that—I understand that neither one of us can fulfill for the other. So, along with galleries, and the movies, were trips to apartments where I slept drunkenly on the floor. And a return to so said apartment to wait and have to deal with a racist roommate. Playing bouncer to escape the face of a man that refuses to accept your existence because he rather just be with your friend. Only to have shockingly and randomly show up at a bar after your friend’s request to have him join us, with no other friends around. Only to feel weird at the end of the night as you ride in the taxi metaphorically feeling his cock on his ass for blocking his chances. But after all of this—to be told by that very friend I was jealous because I was not with her.
Yet, none of that hurts really. Nor does it hurt being told shut up after being asked for advice, nor being told mind my business. Nor does it hurt when everyone comes to me saying that I’m jealous and that there is a sexual tension in the friendship. No, what hurts is seeing disappointment in your face once more. Seeing how that potential life has gone up in flames as quickly as it was dreamed. That’s what hurts and that’s what I run from.”
It felt as if my words fell on deaf ears, the motions of my body were captured by eyes that gazed at me with no desire to understand what was before them and a mind that only counted the sips before the next drink. Still I continued to talk.
“There was a time I could tolerate disappointment and pain much easier, but I’m afraid that candle has been burned on both ends.” I said to her, but pleaded to myself.
“Not by me, so I don’t see why I should have to deal with this metaphorical candle. Why am I being burned by a flame I feel, I protected.” She said and she was right. There were nights when she was the only that kept the dim flame of hope within me alive. There were also nights that the very person that protected seemed all too welling to snuff out the flame.
“Does the flame that warms us not burn us?” I asked with a Cheshire smile.
“Ugh, you. You and your damn words and philosophy. Just because that is sometimes true—doesn’t mean I have to accept it.” She said.
“You are so right. No one has to accept anything—haha.” I retorted.
“Why are you laughing?” She asked if the laughter was directed at her.
“You know…” I paused for a second, hoping the burning of my face would subside to the coolness it had displayed moments before. Such hopes are only delusions. “…As a writer I can appreciate Life’s affinity for plot twist. However, as a character of a story I have little control over, the vexations rarely cease.”
“Well, can you please keep those vexations to yourself? Or at least limit my exposure to them? I’ll get this round.” She weaved her way through the crowd to get to the bar. I assumed she would want an answer when she got back so I began to rehearse what I was going to say.
“How does one keep within them the slights of life? How can hurt not show on their face or guide their actions? I’ve watched the woman who taught me how to please and be pleasurable—turn grey before her hair and forced to use a wheelchair before she had crow’s feet. Her passing shortly after my birthday, but I dare not say goodbye. I have yet to do so. How do I not be afraid when I’ve watched one uncle put a knife to his brother who declared his love for him—shortly before he put a round in him. Funny thing the one who got shot was the one who exposed me to the things that took me to the other side of the world. How do I bottle within me being called an abuser by someone who must have forgotten I was abused? A person I’m destined to be reminded of each time I stare at my own face. How befitting that I remember lines from the definer of Western tragedies? Too true are his words—it is unbecoming for young men to utter maxims. For the dying Death is a transition that is of some unknown sort that calls into question the whole of their life. For the living Death is repeated at the end of each memory and has the unpleasant task of ripping from our lives what we dare not let go in our hearts. Oh such maxims should only come as the textual-visage of Marlowe, but no—it dwells in my phone and mind. How do I keep it all within me?”
“What were you mumbling? That damn line took forever. Damn bartender acted like he couldn’t see me.” She said placing the drink in front of me as she took her seat. Once comfortable she asked “Do you have an answer?”
“I’ll learn.” I smiled.
Don’t get the game twisted. I said I don’t want to be black; back before the brainwashing and chains I was African in my existence. No, no, no don’t get the game twisted. They said one drop and you tainted, but that never stopped them from dipping their quill into the African ink. There was no low to the level they would sink, to project their moral depravity while denying my humanity. So tell me, how is it that I can be charged with the first degree when I should only share three fifths of the responsibility: poverty of the spirit. Can’t have a man-to-man talk with a society that treats me like a spook. My name ain’t Common so I get the common treatment of being a monkey in a suit. Monkey see monkey do, thus I throw this shit at you. Using these words to curb your enthusiasm to see me in chains: no diamonds or Jesus pieces, no bad bitches or baby mommas because the mother of my child is my equal. Too bad you didn’t live the first movie mothafucka because there will be no sequel. Don’t think I speak of skin color because the talented tenth is no betta. Try to change my gramma. Try make me presentable for masta. Can’t wash me white; this aint dirt nigga it’s my skin color.
qklstill 