Flying away

mercredi, le 16 septembre 2009

The Princess and I ’Bien joué’-ed our way narrowly over a green traffic light to the park today. Her favourite friend was waiting for her and she ran and played and smiled broad dog smiles and wagged her candle-wick tail with delight.

I stop outside the shop and L’homme is sitting on what he used to call his beach-front couch. I reverse slightly to make sure that my eyes are not deceiving me. But they aren’t and it is him in all his colours.

I’m not sure what to make of his presence. It looks so right, so completely where he belongs, comfortable on a leather couch with a glass of red wine, yet it looks so terribly wrong.

I sit next to him and hold on to his hand desperately, to make sure it’s real, to make sure it’s him. He tells me he heard I was no longer involved in the shop, he didn’t expect to see me there and he wanted to spend some time with his own nostalgia. My own nostalgia wells up and spills over my cheeks and I clasp his hand tighter.

He speaks softly and I strain my ears. We talk about his hacked broadband, he tells me about his precarious situation at work, he tells me about the mail of Kafka’s The Trial he sent his boss whom he used to refer to as god, he tells me how he battled to eat, he tells me I was angry with him. And he has another glass of wine. He lets go of my hand.

As always when I see L’homme with ache in my heart I neglect to do what I have to do. I order another cappuccino and leave the new owner behind his laptop in his empty shop and I avoid making contact with his eyes. I take L’hommes hand and inadequately tell him how hard it was to sell the shop. I let go of his hand.

I sense L’homme letting go of some of the distance he’s put between us. I take his hand. He tells me about his new friend. He has another glass of wine. I have another cappuccino.

And I listen to his life that seems troublesome, he tells me he has become less sensitive and I despair. I touch his neck. He takes my hand away. I hold onto his hand. He tells me he has not met someone new. I hope with all my heart that it is true.

He gets up to leave. He wraps me in his arms and I hold on to him tightly. I want to tell him that his being there tonight eases the pain of letting go of the shop so much, but I can’t find the words. I had so hoped to just see him there one more time, just to talk to him, just to feel him close and unwittingly he made it happen.

He let’s me go. He kisses me softly on my lips. I lightly kiss his neck and fill my nose with the smell of him. He walks away. I call him back. We hug once more.

With strength I drew from L’homme I sort out the remaining financials with the new owner.

I come home and hug The Princess and tell her all will be a bit easier now, a bit lighter, at least for a while. I read the opening line to The Trial. I think someone must have been telling lies about me, I knew I had done nothing that terribly wrong, but, one evening, I was arrested by pain and heartache.

Oh my love, my old, my sweet, my gentle love, my darling L’homme, I was not that angry, I just didn’t know how to fix anything and I needed you to help me, to love me. And please don’t blame me for your leaving. It was not like that, you know it. You left because you wanted to. You spent months withdrawing to prepare for you physical departure. Stand naked before yourself, and be honest, L’homme. If it were true that I was angry and you had no intention of leaving, if you had all intention of staying and seeing the tough times through, you would’ve found a way to make me laugh and to make the anger go away. You always did that.

On the day L’homme left, on a short Facebook chat, I told L’homme that leaving was his choice and he said that he knew and he said it was all his fault. Does he still feel that way? Was that a momentary truth and has he in the in-between months shifted the blame to me?

If I hugged myself long and hard enough, could I turn into an angel and fly away from all these tormenting emotions or would I always remain cast in sandstone with flowers at my feet?