Sapphic Voices Romance

Knowing Better

by Mary Dawn
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Copyright © by Mary Dawn 2006

I have purposefully waited three months before doing what I think I’m about to do. In AA, OA, and the anonymous groupings of letters that represent battles with addiction, they tell you to call your sponsor before breaking your hard won abstinence. In my case, I am willingly falling off the wagon, seeking my own demise. Perhaps the crushing pressure of a wooden wagon wheel will feel better than recovery. One can only hope.

I haul out my address book and find the entries I have not used for months. There are numbers for her work, home and cell phone. I can get in touch with her anywhere. The issues is not how to make contact, but why do I want to?

Not in the too distant past, I rewarded myself when I passed a milestone. The first week was the hardest. Week two – I purged the house of any reminders of my loss, and by week six, I felt that perhaps I was officially recovered. A lie I’ve often repeated to myself, and can finally acknowledge.

At that point, I thought I might actually call her, knowing even then, that I would have to be totally immune to her charms. I knew I would never be able to share her company without longing nearly choking me, love and tender feelings rising like a warm spring to drown me right on the spot. I entertained the idea of asking her to go dancing, which I realized was not an option, really. If she accepted I’d certainly set back my recovery, and risk death by wetness on two counts; if she turned me down because she was already involved – that was too much to even contemplate.

If I wanted to call someone to talk me out of this absurd act, I could call many people – anyone familiar with the sordid story, even strangers on the street, could give me more reasons that I care to count about why I should not call that girl.

I try to dig deep and find what I want of this proposed phone call, if I actually get around to dialing, that is. I want her to be excited to hear from me, and flirtatious. I expect her to be happy about the call, open to being on friendly terms. I want her to agree to whatever it is that comes out of my mouth.

There is another nagging thought, one that I must explore before making a fool of myself again, a piece of logic hard to argue with. If she wanted me she would have acted by now. I have been reluctant to dwell on this nugget of truth. I prefer to think she hasn’t contacted me because she doesn’t want to give the wrong signals. In our last conversation she kindly offered that she was available if I needed to talk or process. At the time I thanked her, but declined processing any more of my hurt and disappointment. Over was over, the end.

I’ve asked myself some very important questions. Is calling her going to help me feel better about my life? The answer could be ‘yes’, only if she’s missed me terribly, and ‘no, hell no’ if she doesn’t recognize my voice. Do I think she’s really going to answer the phone? If not, do I want it known that I have been stewing in my own juices? And finally, do I want to spend another three months licking more self-inflicted wounds? I am still sane, and the answer to each is NO.

I put the phone down, grab my notebook and good fountain pen, and head for the bookstore. Its open nearly till midnight. It will be full of people and the worst I can do is drink too much steamed milk, and end up with a bad case of heartburn. My intention is to read new books for free, write, and drink until I get tired. This tactic has worked before when I get a case of the loneliness; it should work again. Just getting the car on the freeway feels like progress. I congratulate myself for taking care of me for once. I feel all grown up suddenly, disaster averted.

I sit Indian style on the floor in front of the gay and lesbian section, for starters. I choose a collection of erotica, and look for something informational yet humorous – Robert’s Rules of Lesbian Breakups looks promising. I stand, volumes tucked under my arm, turn the corner and nearly collide with HER.

She covers her shock quite well, smiles big, tilting her head to the side just like I remember; “Hey!” she is cheerful, but her voice is a bit hesitant.

I can’t breathe, nor can I make my eyes meet her gaze, “How are you doing?” I manage. I take a deep breath and try to find a safe place for my attention.

“Good.” She says.

“Good!” I repeat energetically, try a smile, and then just go blank, utterly at a loss for words. The journal in my hand is filled with words for her, about her, from her. I hate that she does this to me. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you around.” Flight or flight are the options for animals, and I certainly feel like a deer on a busy highway.

“Wait.” The irritation in her voice is barely concealed. Beseechingly she asks, “Are you in a hurry or do you just not want to talk to me?”

I blink, not expecting this at all. “Uh, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just a little unprepared.. I kind of … need a moment.” I look at my shoes. Is that what I need, a moment? Do I know? “Are you going to be here a while?” I’m trying to kick start my brain; I need a plan.

“Yeah, I’m studying for my exam.” She looks agitated and confused. That makes two of us.

“Okay, I’ll meet you in the coffee shop. We can sit for a couple of minutes?” I am the queen of accommodation. She agrees.

I watch her walk away – a particular gait that is characteristically hers. I go to the bathroom, wash my sweaty hands, and take a good look in the mirror. I have to laugh at what I see, a woman who set herself up cosmically for the meeting she’d been pining for. The universe works in mysterious ways. I say to my reflected self, “You are not ready for this.” Finally some good advice. “You should just leave now.” I know I should, but I can’t. The sage in me says, “You have a few minutes to say what you need to say. You will not obsess over what happens, and it may hurt like hell. You are done after today.” It seems I’m ready for my meeting.

I order my steamed milk at the counter in the cafe, finding her seated in a nook. I sit down. She gives me a wistful smile; she’s flushed, sweating a little. At least I’m not the only one hyped up.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I say, not sure if the movement of my mouth is classified as a smile, everything feels shaky. I feel like I’m sitting on Pandora’s box, offering her the key. I know better than to sip at the milk, my stomach is already doing crazy things. My teeth may begin to chatter at any moment. “What shall we talk about?”

Ever the social worker, she folds her hands in front of her on the table, tilts her head and looks not at me, but through me. “How do you feel?”

“I feel….” I want to say tired, I feel tired, but I don’t. I say, “I thought I’d run into you somewhere else, and I’d be very grown up and cool. You know, a bar or concert, or something.”

She nods her head in agreement, “I thought we’d have run into each other by now, too. Are you seeing anyone?”

I know she doesn’t mean to be abrupt, and I dare not hope she has an agenda besides polite conversation. This territory, my alarm system warns, is not safe. “How about the weather?” I suggest.

She really smiles then; her eyes crinkle at the corners. I realize I’ve missed seeing her teeth, of all things. My pulse quickens dangerously. I’m lost in her presence. My imagination and memory hasn’t served me well; she is more everything in person. I am still attracted to her in the same powerfully unexplainable, undeniable way.

She reaches across the table and takes my hand. I squeeze it welcomingly – an old friend exactly the same size as my own.

“It’s been rough on my end of things.” I admit. I take a deep breath and get to the real point, the thing that must be said. “I really did love you, and you didn’t love me.” I swallow against the constriction in my chest that signals oncoming tears. “I think about you a lot, about a lot of things that just aren’t possible anymore.”

I squeeze her hand again, and let it go. I lean across the table, and kiss her cheek, retrieve my notebook, pen, and cup. I meet her eyes, loose myself there for the last time. “I’m not completely over you yet,” I find a real smile for her, free of fear and self-doubt, “but I’m a lot better. Thanks for asking.”

I leave the coffee shop, my path to the car obscured by unshed tears. I am undone. I am not better, but I will be, and maybe sooner this time around. Once in the driver’s seat, I push my key into the ignition, and think about where to go next.

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