I never dealt well with her longings.
In the evenings, on the stoop of her building, when we sat smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine from plastic cups, she often grew quiet and thoughtful in a disturbing way. I could see the lines in her face change, and her whole body shifted into someone I didn’t understand.
“I don’t want to live a normal life,” she said.
“Who does?” I responded, as if that was enough.
“I mean I don’t want to live life normally. It’s not the same thing. I don’t mind going to work and getting up early on weekdays. I don’t care about the laundry or the bills. That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean then?” I asked, picturing the life of an artist, sleeping ‘till three with an obsessive lack of caring about the details.
“You should know,” she whispered, lighting another cigarette. “I mean, you do know, you just want to forget.”
“Do you remember when we had sex last week in the morning? I started to cry, and you stopped and kissed my eyes and told me everything was alright?”
I nodded, because it was the only thing to do. She often cried during sex, and I moved instantly from thrusting to holding her tight. Life was fragile for us both, and tears required comfort more than lust.
“Should I have kept going?” I finally asked, hoping to break the silence that had gone on too long.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, stealing the last of my wine. “What you did or didn’t do doesn’t matter. That moment? Those minutes of tears, sex, love, and confusion? That’s what I want. I don’t want a normal life.”
“I swear I’ll never understand you,” I said, leaning back and looking up at the darkening sky. The buildings across the street were silhouetted by the sun, and the streets were full of people longing for anything that didn’t involve tears.
“That’s okay too,” she whispered, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I don’t need your understanding.”
All I could do was kiss her hair, wondering if she would leave or stay. Wondering if it was true.
Wondering if any of it was enough.
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