"I was feeling everything too much. Everything pulled at my eyes. I spent hours floating in pools."
-Dave Eggers
Directly underneath the showerhead, I stand, feeling the water creep into every crevasse of my face, flowing down my spine and swirling down the drain. It’s as if an egg has been cracked over my head and now the thick yoke travels the terrain of my body.
This is what I do now. Stand under the shower with my eyes closed, feeling a river flow between my lips, while puddles gather in my ears, and a waterfall slides down my arm, lingering at my wrist, and dancing around my palm, trying to hold my hand.
This is what I do now. Instead of thinking of him.
We met on a bench. Two years and three months ago. Just eight hundred and twenty days, nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty hours, one million one hundred eighty thousand and eight hundred minutes ago.
I was running to catch the bus. As usual, I was late for work, my hair falling out of its bun, my jacket hanging off my shoulder, my shoes barely on. I reached the bus stop only to discover it was late for me today. This meant I would be extremely late, as opposed to just, late. For the third time this week. I slumped down on the bench, right next to him.
Catching my breath and fixing my hair, I barely even noticed I was sharing the seat. Digging through my purse for the bus fare, I caught a glance. He was so put together. His loafers, oxford, tweed coat, and thick framed glasses; a package I thought I could only dream of. And he was reading, reading Eggers nonetheless. My favorite. He kept reading, and I kept waiting.
Eventually the bus came. Jammed packed, like always, there was only room to stand. We stood right next to each other, the smell of hazelnut coffee snaked from the cup in his left hand straight to my nose. The bus jerked. Now that hazelnut coffee was all over my red shirt. This was when he noticed me.
Apologies began spewing from him mouth. It was almost scary how genuine he seemed. He began walking around the bus, asking everyone if they could spare a napkin, tissue, anything. He came back empty handed, and I, soaked and smelling like hazelnut, got off at the next stop. And he did too.
He kept apologizing. It began to become irritating. Countless times I told him that it was okay, that it was an accident, that I would be fine. He wanted to at least pay for my shirt to be dry-cleaned, it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. He didn’t have cash on him, so I wrote my number on his coffee cup and told him to call me when we could meet up.
Work dragged, despite being an hour late. I guess it didn’t help that all I could think of was him. Those loafers, that oxford, that tweed coat, those apologies. I figured I would never hear from him again, and this little event would be nothing more than a funny story to tell at dinner parties.
When the workday was finally over, I gathered my things, closed my office door, and could still smell the faint scent of hazelnut embedded in the fibers of my shirt. I walked to the bus stop and waited for the bus, which never seemed to be on time for me. I was digging through my purse for the fare, when I looked up and there he was with money for my shirt to be dry-cleaned and another apology.
It was getting to be too much. He seemed way too perfect. I thanked him, told him it wasn’t really necessary, and then the bus came. There were two seats opened, right next to each other, so there we sat together.
Conversation started, we coincidently were from the same neighborhood, worked around the same area, and liked hazelnut coffee. He asked me out on a date, and so it began.
Everything seemed perfect because he was perfect. But I was not used to this. I was not used to such affection, such kindness, and everything for me, was happening too fast. I had never felt this way about anyone before. I never knew if I wanted to feel that way about someone. I liked my independence. I liked leaving my house a mess when I was late for work, I liked eating dinner alone, and sleeping alone, and doing everything for myself.
Or at least I thought I did.
I eventually called it off. We spent a year together, doing this dance while I tested the waters of being in a relationship. A real relationship. And he was wonderful, so patient, so kind, but I was too afraid to start feeling everything. Although the break up was unexpected, he took it surprisingly well. He told me he understood where I was coming from and that he respected my decision. Of course he would say that. He was merely perfect.
We met on a bench. Two years and three months ago. Just eight hundred and twenty days, nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty hours, one million one hundred eighty thousand and eight hundred minutes ago. And it’s been a year and three months since I broke it off with him. And now, all I find myself doing is standing in the shower feeling the waterfall slide down my arm, linger at my wrist, and dance around my palm, trying to hold my hand. Just wishing it was his.
The End
