“Who likes Animal Collective, you or Melissa? she said.
I think we both like them.
I don’t remember, he said. You know, we share those things, I don’t remember whose is whose.”
“There was a pause. I realised that the soft pad of skin at the base of my thumb was held against a thorn and beginning to turn purple. I tried to rearrange the flowers so that they weren’t injuring me but without calling attention to my continued presence in the room.”
“Who says I have to love him? I said.
Well, I want to believe you’re the kind of person who loves her own parents.
I believe I raised you to be kind to others, she said. That’s what I believe.
Was I kind to others? It was hard to nail down an answer. I worried that if I did turn out to have a personality, it would be one of the unkind ones.
Did I only worry about this question because as a woman I felt required to put the needs of others before my own? Was ‘kindness’ just another term for submission in the face of conflict? These were the kind of things I wrote about in my diary as a teenager: as a feminist I have the right not to love anyone.”
“What did they talk about? Did they amuse each other? Did they discuss their emotional lives, did they confide in one another? Did he respect Melissa more than me? Did he like her more? If we were both going to die in a burning building and he could only save one of us, wouldn’t he certainly save Melissa and not me? It seemed practically evil to have so much sex with someone who you would later allow to burn to death.”
“I just don’t think it’s possible to love more than one person, Camille said. I mean, with all your heart, really love them.
Did your parents have a favourite child? said Bobbi. That must have been hard for you.
Camille laughed nervously, unable to tell whether Bobbi was joking and not knowing Bobbi well enough to know that this was normal.
It’s not really the same with children, Camille said. Is it?
Well, it depends whether you believe in some kind of transhistorical concept of romantic love consistent across diverse cultures, said Bobbi. But I guess we all believe silly things, don’t we?”
“I followed her. It was still early evening, and the air was crisp and navy blue. She started to laugh and I laughed too, from the joy of being alone with her. She lit both our cigarettes and then exhaled, a white cloud, and coughed with laughter.
Human nature, I ask you, she said. You’re such a pushover.
I think I only appear smart by staying quiet as often as possible.
That amused her. She fixed a strand of my hair behind my ear fondly.
Is that a hint? she said.
Oh no. If I could talk like you I would talk all the time.
We smiled at one another. It was cold. The tip of Bobbi’s cigarette glowed a spectral orange colour and released tiny sparks into the air. She lifted her face toward the street like she was showing off the perfect line of her profile.”
“At this point you have to understand, he said, I was used to everyone seeing me as a burden. Like my family and Melissa, they all wanted me to get better, but it’s not as if they enjoyed my company. In as much as I was functioning again, I still felt like this very worthless, pathetic person, you know, like I was just a waste of everyone’s time. So that’s kind of where I was at when I met you.”
Conversations with Friends
