XXI

Sunstruck

Effortlessly warm and sentimental. Of course you would pick this café. I don’t even know if you realise why you picked it, but I know. Our conversation feels out of place here, a sharp blade in a soft wound.

I knew you would be early, so I made sure I was a few minutes late. I wanted to see you wait. You did, patient and understanding as ever in the warm glow of the café. When I finally walk in, you stand, pulling out my chair, just like I knew you would. I know why you wanted to see me, but I’ve never had what you’re looking for.

You already ordered for me. Of course you did, because you think you still know what I want.

Soft jazz fills the room. You offer me apologies, drenched in sincerity. I leave them, sticky on the table for the waitress to wipe away. You offer me condolences and sympathy, I crumple them in my napkin, pushing them aside to make room for my cup. You offer me money. It almost makes me laugh.

You don’t bring her up, but she’s here. I can see her, lingering at the edges, your cheek, your collar. You think that I won’t notice.

I look past you, to the glass, where the light filters funny, breaking in strange ways behind your head. I wonder what you made her for breakfast, how it tasted, if you brought it to her in bed. I think about her hair, her smile, her nails. You two look good together. Right together. We always looked odd together; not that anyone ever saw us. Really, you were the only one who ever did see me.

It was the only thing I ever could give you. Secrecy.

My coffee tastes bitter. I can hear the waitress repeating specials, her voice drifting through me like static, while you sit across from me, certain I’m the one who went wrong. You still blame me. You don’t know what I did for you. I gave you this. Everything you have with her is because of me. A kindness neither of us knew I was capable of. You still call it cruelty.

I ask about her, just to watch you squirm. Your face is red. You tell me she is well, and pregnant, then change the subject. I don’t bring her up again. You ask about me, the way someone might ask about the weather, an obligatory kindness. I play along, pushing shapes that sound like sentences around the table, stacking them into neat piles for you. You think I’m letting you win. Giving you something, but really I’m just buying time.

You tell me she misses me, they all miss me, I should come over, sometime soon. I wonder if she pities me. I imagine her smirking over your shoulder. All of them smirking. Dousing me in their condescending care. I can feel it dripping down my back. I look at your watch. I watch through the windowpane as a cloud covers the sun. You search my face, trying to maintain eye contact. I’m still scrambling for time.

There are black and white triangles on the floor. I try to count them. You tell me about all the times you almost called. You want to know if I’m still living alone. If I have talked to anyone about it. I refuse to give you this. This is the only thing that’s still mine. I don’t ask how much you told her, I already know how you feel about honesty. I ask if she will tell anyone. This is something you don’t give me.

You tell me that no one blames me.

I congratulate you. On all of it. I tell you: this is what you deserve. I look you in the eye. You flinch. You don’t know how sincere I’m being. You don’t know what I have planned.

I let my coffee go cold in my cup. I don’t fill the silences. I watch the cream clot. I ask you if she sleeps well. You don’t understand this game. You think I’m building to something. Some sharp stab. You wish I would stab you. It would make this easier.

I watch the waitress balancing trays on her arms. You shift in you chair. Desperate for resolution, for closure, for something to fill the gaping guilt I left inside you. You want me to make this okay. Tenderly reassure you I’m fine, I’ve moved on. You ask me if I’m okay.

The waitress walks past again, I see it in her gaze, she recognises the game. You still haven’t caught on.

You tell me you want to be my friend.

I cant help it, I burst out laughing hysterically. I’m not even here anymore, there are tears rolling down my cheeks, my face is bright red. People are turning in their chairs. I have drowned myself in some grief-shaped cave. Trying to save You. Her. Them. Your unborn child. Maybe even the waitress at this point. Trying to do something good. Trying to be good. You don’t even see it. And I can’t stop laughing.

I remember the summer you tried to teach me to swim. You held me, just above the surface, hands steady, voice calm, as I thrashed and kicked like something feral. The water was too vast, too blue, I knew it was waiting to swallow me. I hated how exposed I felt, skin to sky, nerves to sun, but you wouldn’t let go. Not back then. You pulled me to shore when I tired myself out, gently wrapped me in your towel, like I was something worth preserving. We lay on the sand and you reassured me for hours, over and over, stroking my hair, until I started to believe it.

I came home that summer velvet-blushed, sun-warmed and dazed, while you stood gilded in gold. That’s when I realised how much the sun loves you, how the world orbits around you, and how much I wanted to be part of it. To feel something warm, gold, and good, tangible to my fingers. I was sure I would drown, but you never let my head slip below the water.

You know I never wanted to be your friend. That was always your line, not mine. I push your olive branch back across the table. At this point it’s more splinter than offering. I told you I had no use for kindling.

You flinch, like I wacked you across the face with your stupid stick.

The waitress takes our cups. Wipes the table. And you still haven’t realised.

The blade is already in my stomach. This is what I’m giving you. This is the plaster, the mercy. If I am cruel, then you are innocent. I am falling on my sword.

Dorothea Blythe