Sometimes I feel like our conversation is for show. I feel that we say these words, words that unwind like thread out of our mouths, that are taken up and sewn into something false, maybe something prettier than what they should be. We say these things without meaning them, or maybe meaning them for a different reality.
“I mean… I mean, you know,” he is saying.
I am driving down 15, the fog having finally burned off. The air, I can tell, is humid, yet the sun is setting. The rest of the day had been overcast, spitting rain once in a while. It is getting dark, although I do not have to squint yet.
He continues. “You know. It’s just like… the easiest thing for us would be to get married so she can come over, and like I’m ready, you know, to make that commitment. We’ve been together, what, like two years. But we’ll of course, you know, have to see…”
Suddenly I am struck by the ridiculousness of the situation. Luckily today I am feeling mature enough to say something. But all of the weight of the last few years and all the years before this are pressing down. Tears well. I cry. Quietly, of course. He is still talking. I am gathering myself together. Somewhere in between I say, you know, I never thought I would be having this conversation with you. From this side.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.
Just… about us marrying and being with other people. We’re both talking about our partners and that we’re going to marry them and have families with them. I thought forever ago that when I had this conversation, it would be about you.
I feel that the gravity of my observation strikes with its intended force. He seems to pause, to consider. I am relieved when he agrees (more than half-heartedly, I tell myself. But I can’t be sure).
“Well of course I feel the same way, you know?” he says. His voice comes to me, over a distance.
And there’s lots more, more that makes me cry quietly, shaking a bit as I grip more tightly on the wheel, making sure to follow more closely the curves of the road. Yes, I say to him after a spell. Of course you’re right. Of course we’re mostly happy with where we are now. It’s just strange. He agrees again. Strange to remember the mornings together. Strange to remember holding hands. Getting off the metro late at night, walking onto Meridian under orange streetlights, my footsteps echoing against the crumbling buildings. Feeling my heartbeat quicken in anticipation of seeing him.
Knowing who I was. Knowing where I was.
Listening to his voice on the other end of the phone and knowing, just feeling, that if I fell asleep it would be the most lovely dream, and that when I woke up he would still be there on the other end. Kissing. Walking under the autumn trees and watching water ripple across the reflecting pool at the Mall, the traffic humming somewhere close by, tourists snapping photographs behind us. Feeling content with life and on top of things. Feeling in love. Feeling with every fiber of my being that this is the person I want, my equal, my best friend.
And then I remember all of the times we sat together, hushed, promising each other things. I guess I promise too many things, sometimes. All the promises: together. Married. Family. Together. For our lives.
And thinking that they maybe mean nothing now, or mean little, or that all of those things we used to scheme about, young and loving each other, have now been pushed aside, all of this hit me–hard–in the chest and I sat gulping quietly as he talked and talked.
“I mean, we wouldn’t still be with these people if we weren’t happy,” he says. It is more a statement than a question.
Yes, I say, and still feel weird. When the silence stretches on, I give up. Well, I tell him, if the world is full of infinite possibilities, who knows what will happen? I understand, of course, the choices that we’ve made have led us to this spot right now, right here: me driving home from Pennsylvania. Him driving home from DC. Us leading our respective lives. Me moving to Atlanta for a Boy. Him moving back and forth between here and Russia for a girl. Us careening in different directions, maybe permanently. And suddenly I feel hollow and small. Our choices lead us everywhere, and nowhere, and follow us from the past into the future, forever with us. I tell myself this and keep driving. Steer our chatting into more familiar realms.
Later I think that I wasn’t crying out of sadness for my choices, not desire for him or the way things were, but maybe sadness for the way things change. It is normal, I suppose, for me to think about how things were (happy), and how things are now (happy but tougher). “Relationships are mostly work, I realize now,” he had said before we hung up. I agreed, empathizing perfectly. His work is distance. My work is communication. Our small point of agreement suddenly energizes me, fills me up with hope and love. Before we end our talk, we agree to see one another a last time before I leave, for when I may be able to return, he will not be here, and vice versa.
“And there are no goodbyes,” he says, just like our mutual friend agrees. We’ll see each other again, the empty silence after the click implies. Even if it’s not soon.