Charlie had this shimmery effect on me. This way of looking into my eyes that made me feel like I was barely anything. He spoke in soft, doubtful whispers. Asked me things about my life that weren't any of his business in such a way that the answers slid out before I could catch them.
"Have you ever loved anyone that wasn't yourself?"
It could have, should have been an insult but I understood him. I was my friends, my family, my environment. I was my QPA and that picture I had colored for my Papap in first grade. "No" I say and I mean it.
He just nods like that was the answer he expected me to have and the whole time his eyes were taunting me. The whole ordeal reminded me of a game I used to play. It was more of a test. A test to see who believed my lies the longest. Who loved who I wasn't the most? When I played with Charlie, I lost.
"Stop putting those on the salads. You hate them. I have eyes; I use them to see. You cringe everytime you swallow."
There was not point in arguing so I tried to hate him instead. But he was part of me now. For days my heart and mind fought with each other trying to decide whether I liked him in spite of that or because of it. In the end, I guess it didn't really matter.
Charlie could listen to the radio for hours without remembering even one of the songs he'd heard because the music was just a catalyst for the turning wheels of his 4.62 education. From where I'm sitting in the coffeehouse I can see those wheels rotating. He eyes the chain around my neck,
"You hurt everyone?" he asks
I nod and look at him under hooded eyes, "Yeah."
"You'd hurt me"
There's no use in lying because it wouldn't change anything so I nod again.
It's a statement now, "You hurt ev---you break everyone."
My tongue darts across my mouth and I brush my fingers over his own swollen lips, "I'd break you...and I'd love it. And you...you'd love it too"
"I'd have to let you...and I wouldn't let you" he shakes his head
I thumb the white collar of his oxford shirt and sip my coffee, "You'd let me..." I patronize him and move my foot towards him stopping when he tenses from the prospective of the touch. I laugh, "Oh, yeah, you'd let me"
He leans into the back of his chair, "I wouldn't"
I grab one of the cookies that is sitting on the plate on our table and bite into it slowly, "I'll break you." The way I whisper it makes it seem wistful and places it onto this pedestal of dreams that I have yet to reach.
"No" he says, but his eyes are begging.
Months later when he cries it is loud and wonderful. He screams diatribes at me and harshly explains about half-truths and promises. At one point he is mumbling about trust being golden from across the room and when my phone shatters against the wall inches from his head it is a warning. A warning he heeds.
Eventually he will call me and I will use the phone I bought the day after he left to explain to him about human nature and distress. I will tell him that no man is an island and rattle off John Donne's entire lecture about bells that toll for all mankind. When we hang up I stare at the small dent in my wall and try to convince myself that none of this was out of spite or vindication rather an appreciation for beauty. One of the rare appreciations for the magnificence of anguish and sorrow. I tell myself that this is all he has to offer me. that he wouldn't, couldn't give me anything else
Charlie is persistent. He does not just fade into the background and he does not stop calling. I try to make him see that it's not personal, that it never is. But Charlie's problem isn't with me. It's with himself, I realize, because he knew everything that was going to happen. He knew as it was happening and couldn't stop it. Charlie is like watching a person drown. It's tragic and horrific but the lips are so pretty wrapped around choked words and if you forget about the setting it's almost like watching a ballet. Fluttery arms and if you could hear the screams it would be a glorious song. It's always beautiful, always tragic. It is always, always the same. They fight it and love it and love to fight it. And, once they realize they love it they fight that too. It is no one's fault, really. They cannot help the way they play the game. They cannot help but love it. Destruction is fireworks and puppies and baseball games and everything that little boys dream about and treasure until one day the wake up, twelve, with expectations of being a man.
Charlie will tell you: she breaks everyone. But that's not the truth. The truth is everyone wants to be broken. I just oblige. That will never change but, after Charlie, it will never be the same.
When I remember Charlie I think flashy words in bold type and when I dream he is always wearing green. He holds open my doors and pushes in my chairs behind me with a sad look but asks for nothing. I am thrilled to give him exactly what he asks for. When I have that dream I wake up with cold toes. I know it is because of my bitter heart, not my blankets, and I'm okay with that.
Weeks later I will meet a man that dresses like Charlie and I will take him out for salads at a grill and cringe when I eat croutons and tell myself it is because he asks all the wrong questions. I will tell him that any day when the sun rises is bound to be a good day and that on a good day I can have anything I want. Even sorrow. They all put up a good fight, but eventually there is a weakness and that weakness will become my strength. It will be beautiful and marvelous but, it will never be Charlie.
Charlie had this shimmery effect on me that made me feel like I was barely anything. And I love him for it because turnabout is fair play.