The 101st apology

„Three, two“, I start counting down in my head: „One!“

I jump out of bed and find myself standing in a spinning room. It had finally happened, I had gotten up. What sounds like a simple mission had felt like building a bridge across the ocean to me. But now I was fed up with it. I no longer wanted to mourn over you, I wanted to act. All this time the solution had been in front of my eyes: I had to get you back.

And so, I danced my way through the maze of trash and leftovers that I had built over the last three days. I grabbed my favorite white shirt with urgency because I feared that I would change my mind once again.

The shirt was plain, but I could see clowns on it, clowns that I would transform into, once the fabric touched my skin. It was the piece of clothing, I had worn when I met you. As I start buttoning it up, I close my eyes and go back to that day. A random Friday night, on which a bunch of friends were driven to the clubs by their youth. They wanted to hide from their pretentiously big problems in the music and forget for a while. As they lost count of the shots, they seemed to find some kind of energy in the meaningless songs and climbed on a table. That’s when I saw you, dancing in the crowd. Your wavy hair was put together in order to hide their natural mess. Perhaps that was the first thing that caught my eye. Or maybe it was your big blue eyes which were framed by a thin black line, or your olive green dress that you wore so confidently that it made you seem innocently unaware of how short it actually was. It seemed as though I had seen you before, but I guess I was mistaken.

You wanted to be seen, perhaps not just by me, but I was the only person whose full attention you won that night.

As the song changed to yet another weekly melody and I got surrounded by my friends and the music, you got swallowed by the other dancers. You became nothing but one of the many breathtaking faces, I had laid eyes on, until you suddenly appeared by my side. At this point, the alcohol had completely turned my thoughts off and so, inspired by your playfulness, I started dancing with you.

After some more meaningless songs, we went outside the club and talked for a while. I did not ask you to come over that night or really open up to you, for something about you scared me. Not necessarily in a bad way, it was just that you made me feel fragile and we both know that even fine china likes to think of itself as titanium.

This memory gives me enough courage to bend over and grab a pair of pants from a large pile of unwashed clothes. I scan my bedroom.

„What if you decide to come over to my place?“, I start to doubt: „Seeing this mess would step on my point of changing. Perhaps today is not the right day. I should let one more day pass after our fight. Tomorrow, I can clean and pick you up with flowers, perhaps your favorite chocolate“

My eyes are drawn to my bed: „I could order some more food and… Maybe… No!“, I regain my focus and hurry to the next room to have a wall separating my habits from me.

However, I am confronted with endless empty bottles of wine in the kitchen, another habit. I try to keep moving, but once my eyes meet the bottle of Chardonnay, it grabs me by the hand and drags me to our fourth date. We were in this same kitchen, eating the meal I had cooked for us. The bottle of Chardonnay that I had bought for our date remained unopened on my top shelf, for there was no need for alcohol. Your presence reminded me of the first sunshine after a long winter. You were my hot bath after a snowball fight, my weighted blanket of comfort.

„Oh, to be a child again“, you longed while eating a piece of Pasta Alfredo. In some way, it felt like I was dragged out of the bath, the bed. Suddenly, I felt cold because I could not relate. To me, being a kid was being a saxophone player, with the most beautiful melodies in my mind, a soccer player, with the best strategies, a swimmer, faster than any wave, a scientist with knowledge that had remained unknown, just like me. I never was a saxophone player, a soccer player, a swimmer, a scientist. I was a writer, but these words remained absent in my parents’ description of me. Words unwritten, just like all the stories that rested in my head only. Frankly, writing had also vanished from my life.

So, I got up and automatically grabbed that bottle of wine. There was no need for a glass, for there was too great an urgency for me to turn off the feelings that you had dragged out of their winter sleep. In fact, I couldn’t even taste it anymore, it had become a part of me. Then I lit up a cigarette, no need to open a window, for I had become one with yet another habit. The wine rolled down my throat, not knowing which pain it should soothe first, but aware of the fact that I could not wait for it to erase the words that had just innocently slipped out of your mouth. Then finally, you wrap your arms around my body. You press your chest against mine and I can feel your heartbeat. I fear, in order to show me that my behavior was scaring you.

„Did I say something wrong?“, you doubted

I shook my head. In a parallel universe, I would’ve hugged you back, I would’ve held your delicate face in my hands.

I felt your fingers gently trying to take the cigarette out of my hand, but my grip was just too strong. So, you just pulled away and opened the window.

„Good job!“ I yelled in my head: „She’s gonna leave you now“

But to my surprise you came right back to me.

„What’s wrong?“, you asked with a soothing voice: „Don’t you want to tell me about it?“

A part of me wanted me to resist, but you were just too tempting. So, I opened my mouth and the words burst out, running you over like a hurricane, but you stood your ground. And after I was done, you kissed me on the cheek. I felt relieved, I felt heavy, like I had committed a crime.

„Thank you for sharing with me“, you let the words tiptoe out of your mouth

After that we changed the subject, we switched to something more comforting. However, before you left, you walked over to the counter and grabbed the pen and paper that lay in the corner. The one, I usually used for writing down things I feared forgetting, such as the groceries, or perhaps an email address. You placed it on the table and looked me in the eyes.

„I want you to write“, you told me

My palms began to sweat. I guess I automatically shook my head „no“ because you went on: „It doesn’t have to be anything big. Just write me a short letter about the past days, or maybe a letter to a friend. But just put down some words“

In some way, your eyes grew double their size. It seemed like such an easy task that would make you happy, but where would I even start? It felt like you cared. It scared me. However, in that moment, I promised you that I would listen to you.

As the days went by the paper remained empty, and so did our conversations. I pushed you away, even though I wanted you there. That is 100 apologies away now. For the past months, we had been living in a loop of getting close and me pushing you away. Just a few days ago, we had one of our countless fights. You were probably annoyed by the fact that I never wanted to go out or maybe the fact that I didn’t plan our dates anymore. Or perhaps it was how messy my place always was. Once I noticed that you were being distant, I grabbed a bottle of wine.

„So, you’re just gonna drink now?“, you launched an attack

„It’s just some wine“, I held up my shield

You pressed your lips against each other, as if you were trying to hold back your words while you thought of your next move. In the meantime, I sat down at the kitchen table and lit up a cigarette.

„There’s a new bar downtown, which seems really nice.“, you finally said and since I ignored your words, you went on: „You wanna go there? It’s gonna be a lot of fun.“

I took a big puff, hoping to find some energy in the cigarette. The smoke invaded my body looking for something to wake up, but it just left my lungs empty-handed.

Filled with anticipated disappointment, you sat down in front of me. Then you pulled the cigarette out of my hand and placed it on your lips.

„Hey!“, I finally woke up: „What are you doing?“

You inhaled, without answering. The white string looked like a shovel in a stocker’s hand on Wall Street, a stethoscope, being spun around between the fingers of a farmer. Your face blushed as you attempted to keep in your coughs, just like all the words you felt the need to tell me in that moment.

You stared into my eyes, like a rebellious kid. All this time, you had complained about how much you hated the smell of tobacco, and now you were just sitting there, joining my habits, in order to provoke me. Even though your behavior wasn’t the best in that moment, I was fully aware of the fact that it was my fault. If it weren’t for me, your lungs never would’ve met the taste of tobacco. Not a single filter would’ve touched your lips.

„Get out!“, I felt the words leave my mouth, without any control: „I want you to leave! Right now!“, I got up and towered over you. Suddenly, the rebel in your eyes disappeared. Now, you just looked like a fragile child, squished in the corner of the chair. I could see some kind of fear behind a layer of glass in your eyes, as my shadow covered your mouth. You looked at me, the way a child looks at their parents, while they’re being yelled at, perhaps because they didn’t win the last swimming contest or maybe because they didn’t practice the saxophone enough. All of a sudden, the outlines of your face changed. I could see myself. Filled with fright and fury, I grabbed your arm and pulled you up from the chair. Then we stood, eye to eye, while your fear transformed into disgust.

„I bet it’s the taste of the cigarette that is catching up to her“, I reassured myself in my head.

A drop of frustration rolled down your cheek, it was followed by confusion, exhaustion. I’m not too certain, but I think I also saw hate slide down your lower lashes. It came right after love and was chased by doubt and regret. You started building a river and I feared that I was gonna drown, so I decided to repeat myself: „I said I want you to leave!“

My words hit you like a lightning of movement. You immediately threw the cigarette into the ashtray on the table and wiped your face. Then you grabbed your bag from the floor and left. After you slammed the door shut, I was overrun by an unexpected need to run after you, to tell you that I love you, to apologize, to take you to that damned bar. But I just stood there, like a statue because I knew that all would be forgotten in a couple of days. I was certain that you’d come back to me, as soon as I call for you. And so, I let myself play around with you, like an infant does with a yo-yo.

I flash back to present as I catch myself saying: „I promise I’ll treat you better“ out loud, for I feel the need to have a witness of my promise, even if it is just the kitchen wall that you filled with memories of us. It started with one polaroid picture at dinner, which was then accompanied by another one on top of the Empire State building. Soon the pictures multiplied, swallowing the emptiness of the wall with memories of us playing blackjack in Las Vegas, like you always wanted to, hiding from the sun under a tree while we ate hard-boiled eggs with soy sauce, visiting countless museums and endless evenings in my apartment.

With a smile on my face, I finally leave my home to come get you.

The next morning I wake up to your hair tickling my nose. Then I’m pushed out of bed by my will to make breakfast for us, finally a meal for two. Two hard boiled eggs with soy sauce, just the way you like them. While I’m cooking, I hear your bare feet heading towards me. You appear in the door frame of the kitchen. My blank shirt is swallowing your body whole.

“I see you really meant it this time”, you whisper in my ear and hop on the counter.

You don’t help set the table. You just sit there and bless me with your presence. So, I put two full plates, accompanied by two big black coffees, on the wooden table for two in the kitchen. No words shake the flame of the tall candle between us during our meal. After I’m done, I realize that you haven’t touched your food. There’s no need to exchange any sentences. I just take your plate and put it in the fridge. Then I chug your coffee in silence. I light up a cigarette without opening the window, but you don’t complain, for there isn’t the need for such harsh actions as words. I know that it bothers you already, and yet I’ve decided that you’ll just have to tolerate it. You can’t turn a tree into a book in one day. After breakfast we go back to bed together. With our eyes shut, I press you onto my chest. Your body is cold.

“I missed you”, I finally let a word slip out

But you don’t answer. I hug you even tighter, realizing how little you weigh.

“I’m done fooling around”, I try to reassure you

Once again there is no reply. I can feel my arms around your body, just like I can feel the warmth of your hands on mine.

My heart starts to pound. Just a few hours ago, when I brought you back home, you were so happy. Did you change your mind?

“I love you”, I try one more time

However you do not say it back. Are you gonna leave me again?

I jump out of bed and scout my room for my famous white shirt, but it’s nowhere to be found. Finally, I open my closet and there it is. I lean forward to see if I can smell your essence on it. However it just reeks of freshly washed laundry. I close my eyes and see us driving back to my place after we made up. We were listening to „When she loved me“ from Toy stories II and my hand was sandwiched between yours and the gear stick. It was as if you were telling me how to control the car. Your face begins to blur, so I head to the kitchen to look at the polaroid pictures. However, to my surprise a bare wall stares back at me. It’s completely naked, only covered by the scratches that I caused when I first moved in. Then my glance shifts towards the little table for two. I’m pulled towards the dusty mirror that is placed on one of the two chairs. I take a tissue and start wiping its’ glass, but it just ends up adding white lints to the mess. So, I start cleaning it with my bare hands. The dirt gets stirred around, building thin fibers that won’t let go of the surface. The hands of the clock run on loop and my back begins to ache, while I patiently pick every mote. Some of them are so stubborn that I just end up pinching my own finger. But eventually the reflection becomes clearer and I sit on the chair in front of it. I stare at you. Once again we do not speak. Talking hasn’t gotten us far anyway. So, instead we both cry. One tear for every time I’ve misjudged you, one tear for every time I knowingly hurt you, one tear for every bottle that I have emptied, one tear for all the times that I have counted down, but didn’t get out of bed, one tear for every time that I lied to you. And finally, after 101 tears for you and me, I grab the pen and paper on the counter and write down all these words.