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Whenever it happens, I try to swat away the memories with an extra energetic push out of bed. The kind that leaves you suspended in the air for a millisecond, a quick “and…” before landing on the tips of my toes “…action.” Your voice, “every day, every fucking day,” slips through my sleepy eyes as they still, then close with the hit of last night’s echoes. Your words have such an effect on me. I’m never certain whether I should stand up for myself a little longer or surrender then and there to that voice, whispering from the depths: you’re going to break it, he’s had enough.
I manage to tiptoe down the stairs without a creak and clasp the curtains in the living room, spreading my arms out hard and fast. I squint at the light and smile. I can almost hear you tutting, “OB, it’s brighter than the sun in here,“ whilst you double-check that you’ve got enough clothes on.
I giggle and look down to my hand pressed against my stomach as if cradling the feeling, keeping it there as its intensity grows. Is this really all it takes, still, to make me happy?
I readjust my robe so that my neck is covered in the fuzzy fabric and make my way to the kitchen. I flick the kettle on.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this again,“ you said.
I know it was only just yesterday, but bad tasting memories with you always seem like they happened a lifetime ago. I shake my head with the reminder, then look around until I spot it – there it is. A new car, looking like it’s sighing right back at me from the other side of the window.
“Ha! I can’t believe you said yes,“ I replied closing the door with a thud. I strummed my fingers on the steering wheel and took a deep breath, knowing that you were widening your eyes as far as they went only for me to see.
“Just please be patient,“ I said whilst I tried to remember a similar, high pressure situation that hadn’t turned into a fight. I could already feel it bubbling inside you. I think you even rolled your eyes.
“Trust me, I will. Right, so. Ignition, clutch…“
I slump on the sofa and sip on my coffee. I fiddle around for the remote. I watch a blonde, long legged interviewer nod, adjusting her skirt on the seat whilst she listens to the newly-found benefits of edamame bean milk. Like you hear it, edamame bean milk. It’s been short of a month that we’ve had Sky TV and I wonder when we failed to ignore that it was a bad idea, and how we’ve managed so long without it. I daydream to its rhythm…
“Ha, see? I’m a natural,“ I said shimmying in the driver’s seat. “I can’t believe I spent so long without knowing!“
You snorted. “A natural? Just think of all the lives you’ve spared.“
I gaped, holding back a smile. “Kelly!“
You giggled like you do when you’re giving a second thought to something funny. “Alright, alright… you know what? I hate to admit it, but you’re doing pretty good.“
I felt your hand rest on my shoulder as I drove, your thumb steadily stroking the back of my neck. I smiled as I moved from side to side in that excitement that I struggle to control. I might have squeaked as well, and I definitely thought, I’m doing pretty good!
“Ha! You really think so?“ I said and glanced at you, still slightly shaking.
“Eyes on the road, OB.“
I nodded. “I knew it, I knew it! I’m good, yes I am.‘
“OB…“
I started turning my neck around to stare at the road with a smile still beaming on my face. “I hate to tell you, but I knew it.“
I felt your body tense within seconds, your hand cutting the air with every word you spoke. “OB, just watch the fuck out!“
I know you did it because you care, but I was doing okay. You know that loud noises startle me! Everything does, really. When I heard you shout, I did the only thing that I could think of: steer drastically to the right and hope for the best.
You were standing outside, flicking your eyes between the tip of our car and the one I’d hit before I had time to realise what had happened. All you had to do was fold your arms against your chest and I just knew it. Stalled amongst the horns of impatient drivers behind us, trying to remember if there was a button to switch me back on. Just like that, I had proven you right.
I turn the tv off, catching a glimpse of myself. My eyes have black make up smudged around them, and my frizzy, bob-like haircut has turned a rich chocolate colour from the lack of sun. I’m ten days short of being thirty.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” you said.
I wonder if the right tools to work with are just around the corner, a perfect fit waiting to be picked up by a new me. Will a new decade teach me trust? Will I ever stop being afraid?
“Oh, come on, it was barely a scratch. It was, like, nothing,“ I said. Just me, I thought. Annoying, inconvenient. Annoying, inconvenient.
Will I learn to absorb and accept, to feel inward with a steady breath? Or will I only ever know myself through the thoughts that others have about me?
“My god, no. OB, you can’t just do that. Imagine someone did that to your car.“
“Well…,“ I said trying to picture how I would feel if someone had left a mark like a visible puff of air on my car.
“… it‘s not that bad.“
You took a deep breath, staring at the concrete before looking straight into my eyes. “You’re going to seriously crash – you know what, right?“
“I’m trying! I’m really trying! It’s been two weeks for Pete’s sakes.“ And yet, couldn’t I have been more careful? Couldn’t you have had more faith?
Was I hurting you, or were you hurting me?
Did you really feel the need to say: “I knew I should have bought my own fucking car“?
That did it – there it was. The inevitable instance that makes the topic we’re arguing about irrelevant. Only accusations, hurtful statements, only words designed to break mean something. So far, we only ever just deflect.
I followed you inside, cursing and cussing because I shouldn’t have taken those driving lessons in the first place. Calming down in a heartbeat, as I always do. Almost always too late. Then I called your name, but you weren’t listening anymore.
Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve, I think as I walk back into the kitchen and listen to the kettle bubbling up. What does that even mean? Another day in which I catch myself hoping for a high, dreading the comedown. Waiting for the moment in which things like I’m never going to drink again, we won’t argue anymore, or out with Sky TV, sound like the truth.
I hear your voice from the bedroom. “OB…“
Like this instance – when a night’s sleep has watered down the anger, the need to be right, to fight instead of welcoming difference. Do we challenge each other to be better, or are we just making things worse?
I wait until you say it again.
“OB...” A bit harder this time.
Just hearing you say my name in your usual “you“ way is enough to make me giddy. I throw the teabag out and make my way up.
There you are. On my side of the bed with the duvet all puffed up around you, four pillows beneath your head and your cheek squashed against them. Your hair sticks out in strands pointing around, a harsh contrast to your eyes softly battling sleep.
“Hey…“ I say. No, I think. Don’t give in. But I do. “Pundito…“
And you stick your arms out and wait patiently until I find my space in them, between your cheek and the pillow. I kiss your face, on every space that I find. I whisper my names for you. I look at you, your eyes, what lies behind them, and all that I want is to lay there. Swimming in them trying to understand, next to them trying to comfort. Trying not to disappoint. Trying to tell you that I don’t care, that no matter what, that I’m here. Even if you don’t want me to. That I adore you.
“Hi…,” you say.
Then it hits me so suddenly, swiftly, and I can see it so clearly. The feeling never lasts, unadulterated, for more than a few seconds. But whilst it does, it’s almost simple. Tangible. This matters to me. You matter to me.
“Hi,” I say. I curl my leg around yours and weave my fingers through your hair.
Driving is overrated anyway, I think.