Give Me Courage to Call The Man Who Makes Me Cry

Inspired by the song Mary Jane. by RAYE

Tonight I’m alone with a glass of red wine.

My lipstick smudged and stained on the glass like church mosaics, I spend tonight at the bar, crowded with people and music that transcends universes the second one steps on to the dance floor. As I watch the sea of people at the center, I sit by the counter and observe the couples from afar and make up stories and scenarios about them in my head. I’m here to feel the liveliness I always seem to feel when I’m surrounded by people. To celebrate songs that brought millions together from its initial release and songs that only a certain demographic can seem to understand from the rest of the world – to share that feeling with strangers is the most freeing thing anyone can experience, whether a small group of friends or a concert junkie caught in the mosh pit. It’s exhilarating. Yet the feeling of loneliness still lingers. I've taken another sip as I watch the sea of people dancing and belting the lyrics of the song that plays through the speakers and couples kissing.

Bitter, isn’t it? The wine speaks to me. Only I can hear her judgement.

Yes, I answer. You are.

Not me, you. Bitter? Watching everyone hug and kiss up on each other, and you here alone?

I didn’t respond. I only sat with the burning taste of her words in my mouth, scowling at how well she reads me.

We’re well acquainted and are good friends on night outs, but of course a good friend from college is worth tagging along in a crowd like this. Wine, or ‘Red’ as I call her, is only a good acquaintance to bring along for the ride when the moment calls for it, and she’ll treat you well. I’ve seen many use her to phase out whatever they don’t want to remember, and believe me I’ve seen the bitch do nasty work to others, but her relationship is different for everyone. I’m glad I haven’t hit that point in my relationship with her. I hardly ever need her to enjoy the night, but tonight who I thought was the one has been ignoring me for months. I’ve isolated myself from relationships of every domain to avoid getting close, exhausted of fighting for what can’t be guaranteed. But the presence of a social event always brings me some form of joy, but it’s not the same unless I have someone else beside me. Tonight, I only have Red. She can give unsolicited advice when I never asked for it, but alas am I forced to listen.

It’s interesting how to be with someone for the first time can feel like so many different flavors and textures all at once, especially when you haven’t been used to it or never touched it at all.

Your point being?

With Bradley, of course! You know how it felt then?

And I prefer to not remember.

Now it’s starting to taste disgusting and harder to swallow. “Excuse me,” I yell over the counter to the bartender, clearly busy serving orders, “Can I also have a bottle of water?” I don’t mind the overpriced water for tonight. I just need Red to stop running her mouth.

So put me down, would you?

I need your company, not your input on what I choose to do with my life.

The bartender kindly hands me over a water bottle, and I take a more than sip to rid of the dryness in my throat from how much Red talks. That’s the one thing about her. She’s fun to have around, but once she starts talking, she’ll go on and on.

And what good would it do to leave you to mope?

A great deal.

She continues to bring him up… It was sweet though for a time. Overwhelming, yes, but being with him then felt special to you.

But he’s gone.

He’s not gone. He still exists as a part of the life you’re living now. Imagine laughing about it with me in the years to come!

And you’re supposed to help me forget that. You’re doing a fantastic job at not enabling what I wish for you to do, I spat.

To think about any memory with him, good or bad, leaves the same feeling in my throat when sleeping under an air vent blowing dry, hot air. Hard to swallow and overwhelming of sweetness and bitterness. The more I sip, the bitter it becomes just even thinking about his name. Red, doesn’t seem to be helping with that.

I care about you enough to not enable what you want me to do.

So, what are you good for then than not shutting up?

Encourage you to give him another chance.

Now why would I do that? He doesn’t deserve to hear what I have to say. After Bradley continues to ignore my messages, I give him the same treatment in return. I choose to not speak to him, and whatever excuse he can make up to message me back (that is if he does), he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. A chance he doesn’t need when he’s shown me otherwise.

Now you’re not listening, aren't you?

Which is what I’ve been actively trying to do.

Fine, take this as you will, but I suppose you’ll thank me later. Consider proposing an option to speak to you and you can do what you will from there. You’d be surprised if he even answers at all, but give it a try.

…

But, prepare for the chance that he will not. If you want to let this go, you might as well be the one to shut him down and move on. Being mopey doesn’t suit your pretty face, now does it?

Listening is a skill I have yet to master, and is something I wish to continue working through, but moments like these I can’t seem to sit with myself and only myself. It feels claustrophobic, like sitting in a car and having a hard talk, and once it’s of discussion you can’t escape a moving vehicle. You’re forced to listen and feel anger bubble inside you and your head filling up. What sucks about listening is sometimes you’re given the advice you don’t want to hear, the advice that would make you the bigger person. Red can be the friend that’s impulsive and spontaneous, but she can be helpful in some ways. That’s what makes her a force to be reckoned with.

I set my glass down, and pull out my phone, opening me and Bradley’s inbox. The last text I’ve sent was over three months ago, and it taunts me now that I’m looking at it. Laughing at me, believing it was possible that he’ll ever acknowledge me. But I began typing…

“Hey,” I began. My thumbs trembled as it hovered over the keyboard, but I typed slowly and carefully to not make a single typo. I’ve embarrassed myself enough.

“It’s been a while, and I need to talk to you. If I don’t hear you by the end of next week, I’ll give you my thoughts and that’ll be the end of it.”

Sent.

Delivered.