A Pearl

You could probably send my father a letter of complaint regarding the fact I didn't carve our first touch in my memory like most other half-sentimental things I keep bringing up to surprise you. If I ever expected to be liked — just abstractly, not necessarily by you — I would try and treat every interaction with a male as the dawning of a new budding thing.

In our bunker most things were below — the sea level, the dim lights, the improvised chair-beds, and the expectations of what the night was going to look like here, underground, with seemingly no stars above. And in that downing, you kept trying to pick me up, “Get up, let's count the people, close that rusty door, then take a trip to the mall where a bomb will land just 24 hours from now, though none of us know it yet.” 

It used to be just me inspecting the insides of the troll’s maw, escaping my friend’s hands to crawl down the spider’s lair. But when I stepped my foot inside the cave, yours blocked the way. I looked up. You gave me a nod. And I felt the urge to be weak, to give your courage some room and look from behind like the first lady I always wanted to be. You kept crawling at full speed until I heard a metal beam hitting the crown of your head.

“I think I need help,” you said, I assume, feeling the urge to be vulnerable in return.

Ascending the stairs, I savored the intimacy of sharing a breath of fresh air with you for the first time. So began the long list of our firsts followed by the first fear. I am just a trout terrified of letting the air inflate my dainty lungs with the horrors of the world that exists above my waters.

You’re in my room, above my sink, head down. I am your dust cleaner, your blood wiper… your nobody you met just a few war eternities ago. Are you looking at my shoes? Would you dust them for me how I’d lick yours clean?

“You're OK, don't play a fallen soldier,” or fall in my arms if you do — I let some parts out of the dialogue.

Handling your hair for a bit too long pretending to be a thorough nurse. Feeling your hands on my shoulders when you move me out of your way. Sticking around watching you devour tuna and bread. Could I be any closer? When they decide for me it's time to leave, you blinking me goodbye seems insufficient now.

“So, this is it? You're leaving?”

“I guess,” I reply without nodding. Please, tell me to stay. Please, let me stay. Command me to stand where I am.

“Maybe I should move around, go home, meet the occupants. What do you think?”

“I think it's bullshit. Worst thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“Yeah. Well… I don't want to be left alone.”

Ask me to stay. Just ask me to stay with you. Better yet — let's go together. Leave with me. Should I?.. No. I mean, I know there's a chance he might die if he stays. But are we good enough friends for me to not feel embarrassed to offer? My social anxiety hasn't killed anyone before. This could be a novelty.

“Should I come with y—”

“Yes,” before he has a chance to finish. Good job, not awkward at all. “Go get your things. I’m leaving now. Find me at the train station. I promise to wait.”

It was twilight when I saw you again. The pilgrimage was screaming, throwing clothes in the air to fit inside a train to Warsaw. From the outside, it sounded like the Titanic hit the iceberg. That's when the sirens started bailing. Should we go to the underground? Should we wait for our train? We sit tight under the walls, cover our heads from the glass and wait for the bombs, surrendered. Your leg touching mine. I cover my ears and assume my heartbeat matches yours. When the world didn't end and I opened my eyes I noticed yours were a little more blue than usual. You let a tear out. I’m jealous. Pathetic is the new luxury.

Our train sounded like running away from the bombs. You told me quitting professional sport numbed you, and now your nerves are falling apart. As much as a cigarette could kill your feet. Soon they stepped into the home that we built for ourselves to hurt each other in.

Some days are worse than others. You cook, I wash the dishes. You get on top of me and push the nicotine-free smoke out of your lungs and into my face. Your head on my belly, your hand caressing my hip. We argue. You reach for my hand in your sleep. You call me sick. I hold your hand tighter as you shake in your REM. I say you lack logical thinking. I kiss your shoulders. I urge you to move forward. You drag behind in your excuses. I lock you in the toilet. You ask if I give this look to all of my friends. We touch lips for six hours straight. You pull your phone out to go on Tinder. 

I say I'm struggling to pay your past no mind. You suggest removing yourself from my life and granting me the sweet relief of being away from someone so questionable. I protest. I wish I could have grabbed your hand, pulled you in, made you feel seen, tell you that the tip of your nose is where my priorities lie. Could I have? You escape to the shower instead. I’m listening to the running water until it goes off. It’s been 20 minutes of this silence, you behind the wall. Breaking the door down to find you naked on the floor, half-alive, sobbing, head occupied with a plan to have no more plans. Someone else is caressing you. Touch-deprived, I run away putting a cigarette in my mouth secretly hoping it kills my legs too before I am too far gone. 

A sleepless night, watching you through the wall. It's all about adapting, huh? I developed an X-ray vision to make sure you don't run away before the dawning light touches your left cheek.

We're on the bench I’ll soon deem ours. The doves kissing in front of us. I pull out a card that reads, “Thank you for being where we need you most.” You take a few to pick yourself up, “I'm trying to find the proper words. I want you to know that this is a very important check-point in my game.”

You breathe in my face. I don't mind.

You choke me. I don't mind.

You scratch me with a scribbled pen, leaving grazes, branding me like a horse. I don't mind.

You grab my wrists. I’m scared that if you check my pulse, a professional runner like you would need no more than 5 seconds to know how I feel. Should I mind? You already know I’m head over heels.

You tell me how every building’s first level doesn't match the rest. I suggest we should build a different city a floor up. You stop to look at me for a quick second before continuing to describe most things as eclectic as long as they are non-classicist. I know you’d be the first to dance to the music of the time. You are rarely afraid to look silly, which is lovely until your every second joke becomes worse than average.

Am I here for you to take pictures of only? Someone pliable could work better. And you're growing tired of me. Sorry, you don't want my touch. It's not that you don't want me. It's just that you fell in love with the war and nobody told you it was bound to end one day. I just hope ma petite mort comes first to leave a pearl in your hand so you can roll it around every night just to watch it glow.

“I want you to tell me you rushed.”

“Why?”

“If you hurt the very being of me, I will start to pick things up in a hopeless place.”

“Instability is my worst enemy. And you know that perfectly well on your own. I had feelings. I mean, I guess, some of it is still left. But you're killing it by putting me on the swing.”

In the conversations I have with the Big Guy I pray that one of these days it gets easier to look at you and escape the thought of how your moles change shape when you smile.

This time stretched out in a thin line seems playfully sad. We’re feeding on each other's leftovers. I know it's ending. You can barely see my face in the twilight but I’m the only one worried about the lonely dawn. You would never develop an X-ray vision for me if you stint me an ounce of your time. We drain each other pretending it's fine — it's apparent tomorrow I’ll get the last of you I’ll ever have. Latest Chinese warning: don't cram your leftover yearning into a single night or else I’ll explode into a maniac forever condemned to stacking your every move. Let me let you go.

I press two fingers to my lips, then put them down on our bench wishing to find your shoulder instead.