Croquet
Awkwardness hangs in the air around us and dissipates into the rising fog. Words are useless. He says everything without even parting his lips. We take the backstreets through the quaint town because walking along the waterfront would be too beautiful. The streets are deserted and possibly we’re the last two people after the apocalypse. The warmth of mid-April sun is long gone, and a steady chill takes its place. I cross my bare arms and keep looking ahead knowing if I looked him in the eyes, I might die. He offers me his jacket, but I shake my head without meeting his penetrating gaze.
When we get back to the apartment, I gather my things in the dark careful not to wake the passed-out bodies scattered haphazardly around the room. My eyes adjust and I look at him bathed in a slice of moonlight from the cracked window. He is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and he stares at me like I am the saddest girl he has ever known. And in a way, I am. I’m annoyed by his pity for me but there’s an undeniable sadness in his eyes. Maybe in this moment he wants to say he’s sorry and in another life at another time, I would have said something before it was too late. Maybe he wants to say despite everything, he still cares for me and always will. But he says nothing as he pulls me into him. He probably expects me to silently sob but I don’t. All of my pain is extinguished, and I feel nothing.
I’m really okay. I promise. I whisper into his shirt. His body perfect like a statue, his heart steady and soothing. Suddenly, the adrenaline from the last hour wears off and I know if I stay any longer, I’ll fall asleep standing in his arms inhaling his smell. I descend the creaky wooden staircase and walk into the stillness of the night to wait for my Uber. For so long, I survived on the possibility of perhaps. I fixated on an expectation and that idea sustained me rather than taking a risk. I go back to the apartment the next morning and expect everything to be on fire like returning to a village after a war. But everything is normal, and everyone looks at me like nothing happened because nothing had, really. He gives me an easy smile from across the crowded room and I search his face for pity or regret or embarrassment, but I see nothing besides banal formality. He hands me my credit card and driver’s license I left in his jacket pocket. I wonder if last night even happened or if I dreamt the entire scenario. It occurs to me my birthday is the next day and I want to get back home.
