All Too Well
There’s a Hollywood-red grand piano high up on the stage, positioned at the top of a sweeping staircase. Taylor Swift sits at it, her blonde hair falling down her back, playing quietly as she speaks to us. “I write down all the things I wish I could say to someone. I put them in a song. Then maybe one day that person will hear it, and maybe they’ll understand.” I am inadvertently nodding. I am white-knuckle fists. Taylor smiles, “And maybe that’s a cowardly way to live. Or maybe it’s a brave way to live. I haven’t decided which.”
She pauses for a moment, lips silent as her long fingers dance across the keys in a slow-waltz. I swallow. I’m feeling uncomfortably sad. I’m feeling fluttery and fragile. Taylor turns and looks into the camera as she continues, her face projected on three giant screens at the front of the arena so that it seems as if she is staring right at me, right inside me. “Sometimes you meet someone, and maybe it’s only a fleeting relationship, but somehow… they change you forever.”
And I realise that it was exactly one year ago that I was in England, in Bath, at a concert, at an after party, on a tour bus, on drugs.
The music is gaining volume and momentum. Taylor is sadly serene as she says, “And you’re not supposed to miss him, but you do. And you remember everything. All the little details. You remember it All Too Well.” It’s an act, it’s rehearsed, but it’s real. She starts singing.
It’s been 365 days and I still remember the way he called my name questioningly, as if my very existence was a mystery. Your sweet disposition and my wide-eyed gaze. I still remember walking over to him, terrified of tripping in my heels, certain I would make a fool of myself, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek self-consciously. I can picture it after all these days. I still remember his smirk when I nervously said I didn’t do this often, still remember the envious looks of other girls at the after party when I arrived on his arm, still remember sitting on the counter-top with my hands tucked under my knees, swinging my legs, smiling; still remember feeling so out of place and alive. And I might be okay but I’m not fine at all. I still remember his Lynx and Colgate and bottle of nasal irrigation in the hotel bathroom, still remember my naivety, still remember suddenly realising how much drugs he must do, how many girls he must sleep with, still remember his Hot Water Music hoodie, still remember the zipper on my skirt getting stuck. I still remember him showing me how to turn on the shower, still remember the way the spray suddenly hit me in the face, still remember spluttering and blinking at him in surprise, still remember our laughter. Still remember my wet hair clinging to my skin, still remember feeling naked and vulnerable without makeup, still remember holding his hand as we lay quietly in bed, fingers clasped like a love-locket or a pinky-promise, watching British TV personalities counting down the top 50 or 30 or 20 or 10 songs of the 70s or 80s or 90s or of some genre or other – still remember nothing about the show but vividly recall fitting in beside his ribs, his chest, his gentle teasing, his hand on my hipbone, “I feel like men have let you down in the past”. ‘Cause there we are again in the middle of the night. I still remember waking at three a.m. and rolling away from his body, still remember pretending that a few inches of empty sheets would keep me from letting more than my limbs get tangled in him, still remember his head on my shoulder the next morning, still remember braiding my wet hair as we sat in the hotel lobby, still remember my quiet nonchalance, still remember my sarcastic remarks, still remember my breaking heart. You call me up again just to break me like a promise. Still remember exactly what I was wearing: my heels, cream lace lingerie, blue dress, stockings, red beret. So casually cruel in the name of being honest. Still remember the sweet icy English air, the bittersweet finite English caresses. Still remember pulling on my “Smitten Hearted Poets” sweatshirt, still remember my velvet coat with the hole in the pocket where I hid my clenched fist as we kissed goodbye and now Taylor is singing, Plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own and I am crying, I am reaching over for my friend’s hand, I am gripping it tight so that I don’t turn into shrapnel or confetti, something that buries deep or flutters down, something that was once whole but is now splintered into sharp and bright and useless pieces, and I am watching the two little girls in front of me, watching as they kneel on their seats, waving glow sticks excitedly, so sweet and innocent and full of life when I am right here, breathing the same air but somehow deflating, bursting, my tears are dripping off my chin and onto my new floral dress with the bow that now seems so perfectly immature and I am worried about my makeup staining the pure white fabric and I am finally admitting to myself that I am hurt. I am hurt. I am hurt and I am not brave and I can’t keep making excuses for him because this whole thing is fucked up and it is over, it needs to be over, it is time to let it go.
Taylor is easing up on the piano, singing softly, Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it. I’d like to be my old self again but I’m still trying to find it.
And I know this year of my life wasn’t normal or real. It was the dark side of a fairy-tale. It was the morning after. It was the coming down. Because life isn’t a story or a song or a poem. In real life, nostalgia isn’t beautiful and misery isn’t art. In real life, the emails get shorter and then they stop altogether. In real life, he lands in Auckland and doesn’t call. In real life, he won’t acknowledge how he makes you hurt. In real life, things like “I wish you were here” slip into “send me another photo”. In real life, jealousy isn’t something twisted and poetic, like a bleeding lines or a scrap-metal sculpture. It’s a rusty nail piercing a vulnerable sole. It’s bare skin and no immunisation. It’s puncture wounds and toxins. It’s listening to Taylor Swift and feeling like a little girl again, hopeless and hurt, still trying on emotions that are too big for you, that you’ll never grow into.
