I should not be here.
Ladies don’t wander strange, beautiful,
sparkling cities at night by themselves. Ladies don’t traipse around with
strangers until daybreak. They don’t. But I am not interested in convention at
the moment.
He can go to hell.
It’s been eleven months since we started
dating. It’s been eleven months since it all started in a tiny café, when a
stranger sat down across from me with a mug of espresso, a slice of strawberry
pie and two forks, then proceeded to list obscure facts about the book in my
hand—coincidentally, my favourite book of all time. In these eleven months,
we’ve watched a lot of foreign films together, visited every thrift shop within
a four-hour drive, and learned two languages. We’ve walked for miles in no
particular direction, talking about everything and nothing—forever—and still
felt like we hadn’t said it all.
And here we are, halfway across the world,
together—yet not.
You could say that I am simply tired of
being disappointed. This was supposed to be a trip to celebrate our upcoming
one-year anniversary (the dates specified on the Groupon discount were not too
flexible), yet it has been anything but celebratory.
He’s not a horrible person.
Connor likes dogs and is good with kids
and doesn’t deal drugs or smoke or kill people. He really isn’t a bad guy,
though my mother would disagree. He delivered a passionate speech to her on the
evils of certain corporations over our first meet-the-parents dinner in our
now-least-favourite dining spot, despite knowing that she worked for one of the
corporations in question.
But I’m tired.
I’m tired of being disappointed. I’m tired
of having to pay for his hedgehog food when he doesn’t have money because his disposable
income for the week went to buying too many
iced-caramel-organic-soy-all-natural-four-shot-non-fat-extra-foam-steeped-tea-cappuccinos.
I’m tired of telling all our friends about the incredible (read: non-existent)
progress he’s making on his novel. I’m tired of informing him that shirts with
holes in them are not acceptable for social events—that is, when I can drag him
into going to one. It’s as if I’m his babysitter instead of his girlfriend.
When he suggested that we go out to dinner
tonight, I was thrilled. I squeezed myself into the red dress that I almost
didn’t bring along and slipped my feet into the gorgeous silver shoes that make
me wince in pain after a couple of hours. The night air was warm. This is a city
for tourists—even the weather plays its role perfectly. The rainbow landscape
that is the Cinque de Terre can be seen from our hotel if you squint (and use
your imagination), and city lights illuminate a mix of locals and tourists out
for an adventure.
~
“What do you think this is?” I pointed to
the greenish lump on my plate. He barely looked up before retreating back to
his iPhone, a lock of blond hair obscuring his eyes. I sighed into the dimness
of the restaurant. This was becoming a pattern. The candles shimmered in the
darkness; they seemed to taunt me with their romantic fragrance.
“Who are you texting?” I tried to keep
the edge out of my voice.
Connor didn’t respond. I gritted my teeth
together and willed myself not to scrape my fork against my plate. In a moment
of impulse, I reached over the warm breadsticks and yanked the phone out of his
hand.
He was playing a game of Hangman. The
absurdity of the situation silenced me.
I dropped the phone as if it burned me,
right into our bread basket. His eyes were the most animated that I’d seen in
so long—and it almost physically hurt to know that.
I swallowed hard, and the scene blurred
before me. I opened my purse and flung some bills on the table, then stalked
out, head held high.
“Zoë, wait—”
I kept walking.
~
Well, I wasn’t going to waste an entire
evening of hair and make-up. I would have called my best friend, but she’s a
few thousand miles away and I can’t afford international phone bills. Instead,
I opted to head to a local bar instead.
And that is how I found myself on a
rooftop patio with an obscenely colourful drink, watching the lights glittering
on the water below. The soundtrack for the night is laughter, though I may as
well be deaf to it. I sigh, feeling the melancholy gloom threaten to overtake
me. Summer air tickles the cheeks of partygoers, yet suffocates me. I am
tempted to check my phone for the millionth time tonight, but refuse to get my
hopes up. He is always the one to apologize, and it is always the same old
story. I stand alone near the railing, watching the dizzyingly mesmerizing
cityscape below spin before my eyes. I have always had a fear of heights; it’s
Connor that is the fearless one. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. My
feet hurt already.
“What’s a girl like you doing up here
alone?” I don’t recognize the voice. The music is quieter here, but between the
chatter and the beat, I can barely hear him. His accent is so faint that he
could almost pass for an American. I automatically turn away, ignoring another
pick-up artist—the bars are full of them. This one is persistent, though—he
edges closer. I can feel the heat of his stare on my back. I look off into the
distance, fixating on a point of light in a skyscraper, pretending that Connor
is there; that he is apologizing to me. My heart knows better, though.
The persistent creep touches my shoulder,
and I whirl around, ready to tell him off. “Go—” the words catch in my throat.
I step back involuntarily. He’s quite a bit taller than me, with dark hair and
curious eyes. He is not quite local, but not an obvious tourist. He’s the
opposite of Connor, who has eyes bluer than the ocean in front of me. Connor is
somehow everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
I hesitate, but make my choice. “What do
you want?”
“I’m Nico,” he offers, seeming to read my
hesitation.
“Zoë,” I mumble, against my better
judgment.
“Are you here by yourself?” he cocks his
head.
Every part of me knows the right answer to
this question, even if it’s a lie. I know exactly what I should say. I
should tell him that I have a boyfriend, even if said boyfriend is
god-knows-where. But instead I say, “Yep. I just needed a break,”
“Are you from around here?” I can’t help
but smirk at that. I think we both know the answer, but it’s nice that he’s
playing oblivious.
He motions to a newly-empty seat
overlooking the busy streetscape, and we sit down amongst the curious dichotomy
of twinkling patio lights and beer bottles. As it turns out, he is local—sort
of. He’s here visiting relatives for the summer. To any onlooker, we probably
look like friends catching up at a bar—or a couple on a first date. At least
I’m dressed for the occasion.
~
My phone weighs as much as a brick in my
purse. My conscience—and curiosity—are nagging me to turn it on and check my
messages, but I shut them out and focus on Nico. Not once in this entire
conversation has he made any reference to thrift shopping, foreign films, or
his latest script writing endeavour. The amount of relief I feel is ridiculous.
In fact, he’s telling me about his family,
of all things. “My sister got married really young to someone much older.
Sometimes I wonder what she sees in him,” he says wistfully. “She was twenty, and
he was twenty years older than her,” I automatically wince. I’m twenty, and any
mention of marriage makes me panic inwardly.
It is so easy to listen to his stories and
ignore my own problems. I don’t register that it is last call until I notice the
bartender stacking the abandoned red cups. Somebody has fallen asleep on the
bar. Excitement still buzzes in the air, but I can’t tell if it’s just in my
head. There are some tourists still hanging out by the bar, chattering loudly;
obviously drunk.
“Want to get out of here?” Nico tips his
head toward the street.
Connor would want me to say no. Connor is
probably waiting up for me, wondering where the hell I am. He has probably left
messages that I should probably read. Good girlfriends don’t leave their
boyfriends wondering as to their whereabouts at two o’clock in the morning,
even if he has been a total prick lately. I’m pretty sure anyone with a
conscience would say no. But I have not had enough alcohol tonight to impede my
decision making skills—no, any bad decisions that are going to be made tonight
are going to be all mine.
“Yes,” I have to smile in spite of
myself. Nico grins back, though he has no idea what is really going through my
head right now. To him, I am just a cute girl—and I know he probably thinks
that to me, he is just an attractive guy. I know better. We make our way down
the many flights of stairs (me wincing the entire way), and onto the street.
Breathing in the cool air is refreshing—it is as if I am breathing in
possibility itself. I have not felt this much freedom in a long time.
I sit down on a bench and slip off my
stilettos. Despite all that has happened, their glitter has not dulled with the
passing of the night. I carry my shoes in one hand, and Nico grabs the other—to
help me up and steady me—but I don’t let go afterwards. We make a silent
agreement then and there, and I know that my conscience is slowly losing its
war.
“What do you suggest we do?” I ask. It is
a question that can only lead to poor decisions, but I am either so giddy or
tired that I cease to care.
“You could kiss me,” he suggests in the
most casual manner, as if he is suggesting that perhaps the sky is blue, or
that the Earth is round.
I turn to meet his grin, and take him up
on his offer.
~
Dawn is just creeping up when I finally
make my way back to the hotel; the peeking sunrise heralds a vibrant day to
come. Nico insisted on walking me, but I said no. I know that we will not write
to each other, and so I let him slip away easily. The details of the night are
already fading away along with the cloak of darkness. Things look different in
the mist of the morning—but one revelation from the night is still achingly
clear in my mind.
Connor is sound asleep when I slip into
our room; tucked into what was supposed to be our bed. He looks so young,
curled up in a fitful mess of blankets. I falter for a moment; I almost give up
my resolve and crawl in next to him—almost. His phone blinks on the adjacent
nightstand, and though it is irrelevant now, I check under Sent Messages. There
are seven addressed to me. I don’t know what they say, but I don’t open them.
I haphazardly tear a page out of my
journal and begin to write. I fold the finished note into a little origami
crane and place it on the nightstand. It is damp with my tears, but I do not
linger.
I take a shaky breath, willing myself not
to cry and wake him up. I place the lightest kiss on Connor’s forehead before
slipping out the door into the early morning sunrise—to my freedom.
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