I put my change in a mason jar
A piece for every lie you told
Bar the most important one
I put my change in a mason jar
A piece for every lie you told
Bar the most important one
In our time apart, we grew closer; words eclipsed distance faster than our feet covered ground. With each infatuation, I learn something new about myself. You taught me that love, in its infancy, is easiest when miles separate the subject from the object of a verb.
Like a star, you can only change once you die.
From the beginning, you journeyed for a more favorable sign. Still, I adored the problem that was you, even as the trials became more than I could bear. I was challenged through my hope to divert your path to my constellation. In the end, I did myself no favors. The mythology of “us,” by way of oral tradition, remembers me reckless, elides the contradictions that passed your lips.
I lost my own course in chasing you, water bearer. You were immutable and animated by air, drawing oxygen from the lungs of nymphs. At times, I felt your equal. More often, you reminded me that I was not. You did not desire complementary angles; the shape you sought in the stars overlapped with yours, as if you needed some version of a her that reinforced your bones.
Even as the sun’s proximity to Venus predicted our lives would decouple more abruptly than the event of their crossing, I was unprepared for your absence. Devastated by loss and to lose. And I’m more sorry than your audience will ever know, both for myself and (as time goes on, less) for you. Because you see, I never wanted to fall in love.
Vibrations travel through the heels of my boots, intermittently and inconsistently interrupted as I take a few strides. I pause more often than I’d like to find a direction that will bring me back to Mike. The venue is crowded; what little air exists between and above the bodies of LCD Soundsystem’s fans is cloying. Whenever I can’t uncover an opening between the throngs of people, I stop, pivoting to change course. Part of me considers simply abandoning my date and enjoying the show on my own: I’m not sure he’s worth the trouble of discovery. But he drove us to Brooklyn, and I don’t trust that I’ll find my way back to Harrison on my own.
I commend myself for recognizing my own discomfort, for not pushing away the bits and pieces that tell me to enjoy myself but to not let this man into the interior of my life. I count two accusations of lusting after other people that I’m not sure are jokes, and one awkward conversation about our feelings on political correctness. (He’s not a fan, he told me. Most white men aren’t, I’ve found, and I’m not surprised.) Still, I can be polite and enjoy a good show. So however much it tests my patience, I continue through the venue, eventually finding the balcony’s stairway.
The way he looks at me doesn’t hurt. I may not think he’s handsome, but I could tell from the moment we hugged how pleased he was to see me.
If I were to be honest with myself, I’d admit that it’s intoxicating to know that I’m desired, even when I’m certain that I don’t want them. My high is a positive correlation, in terms of the lust in their eyes. But it’s the most innocent of my addictions, and I’ve worked on myself enough for the year.
So rather than dwelling on my inadequacies, I decide to enjoy this version of myself. This is me in my element, I think, finally reaching the upstairs balcony. A year ago, I wasn’t in a position to brave the crowd brought in by Brooklyn Steel, locked away with girls and women terrified by the relationship between their death wish and the calories they (had not) consumed. And on this exact date, Scott visited me with his mother. Today, on December 26th, I remember the impatience that infested his bones like termites, his leg jumping as he sat on my therapist’s couch. I can even remember Nicole’s assessment of my then boyfriend after our session, nearly verbatim: As hesitant as I am to tell you this, I have my own fears that you’ll go home and not succeed. Both are memories I recall more clearly than his appearance. In a way, I’m pleased.
I break from my brief reverie when I bump into another concert-goer and hear their “fuck” in response. After I dart to the left, wanting to avoid the assignation of “culprit” regarding his spilled drink, I reach what I had previously identified as the best spot on the balcony. I now see that I’ve caught Mike’s eye, my date standing a few feet away, and a flash of white teeth breaks up his doughy head. His face suddenly reminds me of a dog that has dropped a toy at my feet, the grin akin to the lopsided expression of most canines: even without words, he is able to demonstrate that he’s absurdly and ridiculously pleased with himself.
At the time, I don’t realize that this is the wrong comparison.
Trauma is not finite, I learn. This too shall pass, my ex-husband used to tell me. So I wait under Mike’s body, feeling like something of a corpse as his stomach flops against mine.
When “no” ceased to work, I started to distract myself with a variety of thoughts, most of them revolving around dating. The sound his body makes brings me to the absurdity of my own insecurities when meeting men. In addition to sounding like a wet sponge hitting the wall, he’s overplayed his alleged commitment to the gym, his body more Rubenesque than my own. Like many men with thinning head hair, it’s as if the strands that once belonged to his skull migrated downward and then somehow multiplied exponentially.
Scott taught me that it’s easier to give up and give in when a man will not accept your protests. Silence will be easiest, and it ensures he’ll leave. But in addition to feeling dirty, I also feel stupid. Where’s your roommate? he had asked me early on, before we had even reached the venue. When he brought me home and I was ready to leave his car, he asked to use my bathroom. I allowed him into the apartment.
I didn’t think this is how my night would end, sweating under his weight, waiting for his grunting to stop.
And even then. Even then. He finishes and rolls off of me, prone on my bed, likely to leave a large sweat stain on the spot I usually sleep. He laughs. “Girls are so confusing,” he says. “They say no, but they really want it.”
I want to scream. I don’t.
Bruises bloom in the darkest places:
A gift from my father I cannot return.
For too long, I played the contortionist, bending without breaking until I fit the shape of the scripts you provided. My existence in your life was carefully curated and intentionally finite. Amber, you were fun. You were easy. Even then, my performance was reviewed in the context of your narrative, my character some reduction of fiction designed only to advance the plot.
But no woman wants to live as someone else’s story. When I refused to be reduced, you destroyed the version of me you created. Worse, you were vindictive over my exit from the role; you made me doubt that I could live as more than just a subplot, too desperate in my need to be at the center of the tale and too broken to deserve it.
I thought about the story my father told me, of when I was a toddler playing with a “shape sorter,” surrounded by plastic figures, a small box with matching holes in front of me. I said my first string of words as I tried to shove a square block against a round opening: “Jesus Christ!” Whether my father’s story was true or not, I had no idea — given his lifelong hobby of humiliating my mother, I was apt to believe the tale was meant to shame her for cursing around his children. Our daughter’s first phrase, a blasphemy! But fact or fiction, trying to fit into spaces that would only reject me was a common thread in my life. I viewed the story as part of my own personal mythology, as it explained something that was otherwise difficult for me to comprehend. Instead of putting effort towards aligning myself with something or someone that fit, I began my new chapters by knowing they’d end in failure — and that frustration would define the space in between the beginning and end.
Reality is created in the culmination of our experiences, I told Scott. What we call logic is pieced together. A tapestry suggests intention; as a metaphor, it’s also trite. No, logic is more like an installation of scattered stars, the universe from an abstract view. Our thoughts are nebulae and black holes. They’re formed and reborn as they pass through time. How we reason, and all the things we pretend to understand, cannot contain supernovas, cannot bypass the gravity of passing meteors.
You overthink everything, Amber, he said. I wondered how often I disappointed him, the course of my reality set in opposition to his own.
In knowing Scott, I began to wonder – when a Gemini is born a twin, are they less than half a whole? We all enter this world under fire, our dispositions determined by the placement of the sun. With two Geminis, there are four minds. But he always feared himself a fraction, dependent on his brother’s shadow. I’m afraid my friends only invite me out because I’m his twin, Scott had told me. The universe didn’t anticipate you, I wanted to respond. You’re not broken. You were simply born incomplete.
Of course, I knew to keep this to myself: he never spoke to me for my opinion. In his reality, a woman’s orbit circled his needs. We reflected his light, but not out of love. No, to satisfy his need to finally feel like the sun, he diminished our potential, allowed us only to be stone and never stars.
We’re both air signs, I say, expecting you to laugh. You do.
I won’t tell you that I’m trying to find direction in fiction: I’m using meanings arbitrarily assigned to planetary alignments and the quadrants traveled by Mars to better understand your gravitational pull. Part of me wants to explain to you that the stars are more accurate than you’d believe. When our constellations cross paths, we feel a validation of self, an intellectual closeness that falls short in its warmth. I’m flexible and you’re rigid. This doesn’t interfere with your needs, and only displaces one of mine, because we both share the desire to remain independent, to honor the selves we salvaged, however broken. In our friendship and moments of intimacy, we form complementary angles within the spaces we don’t already overlap.
This is a little crazy, so I know better than to tell you that astrology is my latest comfort. For me, it’s always held a place in my heart and mind as my favorite pseudoscience. Horoscopes and the compatibility of signs are also the means of turning abstract thoughts into a narrative, at least lately. Don’t worry, though. Like most things that exist between us, it’s not serious. So I just smile (as I so often do when I hear you laugh). Because even if you don’t love me, afraid to be more than water in a woman’s hands, I can’t help but share in your joy.