February 26, 2011

"The Existing State of Things"

Yes, even writers get it wrong sometimes. Still the use of ‘status quo’ to define our state of things threw me for a loop.

“Hold up.” I said, half-way into discussing something else. “What do you mean, ‘status quo?’”

“I mean; it is what it is,” he replied.

“Right, but ‘status quo?’ That sounds like cardboard lameness. Please elaborate.”

We sat in the Japanese garden near a pink cassia tree planted by the Prince and Princess of Japan. The nearby stream whispered, “relax” and “breathe” as I watched the koi float and gurgle, weaving their way from one end of the pond to the other in red and orange strokes.

Obviously I was frothing up a bit, so he gazed into the bright blue sky for answers, laying there prone on his back, elbows behind his head like wings wishing to fly.

“Well, there are a lot of variables. It is what it is,” he repeated. “I mean, I don’t like thinking in terms of ultimatums, but the manuscript doesn’t mean anything to me—what you’ve already written is enough, and if you don’t want to do any more, I’m completely fine with that.”

“Let me start,” I curtly offered. “I agree there are a lot of variables. But feelings develop regardless of how much you try to control them. I’m not asking you to make any grand declarations—I’m merely saying that I care about you, and if I had to choose between the manuscript and you, I would choose you.”

“Hmmm,” he said, “I have to think about that. Let me write it out and I’ll give it to you later.”

“Oh no,” I chortled acidly, “it’ll be all I think about in the interim. Take your time, choose your words, and explain it to me now.”

I tried to breathe, tried to relax as a red ant crawled up my leg. Pincers at the ready, it searched for a juicy place to pierce my flesh. Stealthily, it made its way through the long hairs above my knee, pausing lasciviously next to a beauty spot on my inner thigh. I thought I heard it snicker a little as its sharp claws began to lower. But before it could sink anything into me, I smashed it between my thumbs and flicked the carcass off into the grass.

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn’t have given this story to you if I didn’t think you could write it, and I care about you, too.”

I think he said more, but in actuality all I really heard is the, “I care about you, too” part, knowing innately that what we had was more than mere sex, but still needing actual evidence from his lips. Immediately, I un-tensed and noticed a butterfly floating above the rocks.

He went on to explain that the non-verbal pulling away I had noticed the last time we spoke was not because my writing had aptly described things he couldn’t articulate, but because he could feel something between us becoming more intense. Attributing it to me being a girl—how women tend to attach more easily than men—he averred he was still at the same juncture as the last time we’d discussed our relational position on Christmas Eve.

“I’ll let you know when things change,” he said.

And I don’t doubt he will. Because after the whole Christmas Eve episode, I am leaving that development squarely in his hands. If I want to stick around, I have to be okay with that, to gauge my ability to accept how he might never come around—how I might never, either. I’m not saying I’m trying to control my falling in love—just that I won’t without a little help. It’s a simple equation—either he gives me a good reason, or I’ll just go on loving without in-loving.

Because it’s totally possible that light bulb won’t ever turn on again. To be frank, I’ve often wondered if I could ever love—if I even have the capacity inside my heart to fall for anyone like that again. Maimed by a different guy with the same last name, I’m healed but unsure if lightning strikes twice where matters of my heart are concerned.

At the same time, I wonder about how much he’s projecting—how afraid he is of whatever it is he’s afraid of. I want to tell him my method for figuring out whether something is my issue: I ask that blunt question and try my best to answer it internally, but I stay silent instead.

“It’s just important that no one gets hurt,” he said again, causing me to wonder about how deeply he’s been hurt—how afraid he really might be, and how impossible it is to understand this if he won’t ever tell me.

“I’m not ready anyway,” I responded truthfully, trying my best to placate this obvious fear in him; that thing that makes him retreat into his cave, blow out the candles, and hide in a corner. “Besides, I just got divorced like five minutes ago.” I explained further how much I am finally enjoying this dating thing, even though it isn’t always fun. I divulged how I just wrote a piece about how ill-prepared I feel right now to declare in-loveness, and admitted liking this snail’s pace, this courting, this wining and dining because I’m getting all the fun without all the yuck.

And even if we don’t go anywhere, I think about all I’ve received: an amazing story to write, I’ve eaten well, been physically satisfied, and intellectually stimulated. He’s treated me like a woman and not a crutch or a mother or a princess. I’ve revealed myself without pretense, and given without expecting through knowing my limits.

Plus he’s actually paid four hundred dollars so I can process writing his story through the only outlet that actually wrings out my center: yoga—something I need if I’m going to get through the transference of his horrifying past, this tertiary trauma. Which means that he believes in me, and that feels wonderful—perhaps actions do speak louder than words.

Because the ‘existing state of things’ is the definition of ‘status quo,’ and even though it sounds like something more boring than staring at the same wall for five hours, it’s what it is, it’s where we are, and it’s all good. For now.