Missed Chance

We part in the afternoon; Michael has work and I have to lay down in my own bed and recuperate the little amount of strength my body has in it. He kisses me on the cheek as we part and makes me promise him that I’ll text him even if I’m dying.

After a night of deep sleep, casual conversation and a little back and forth the confidence in anonymity overtakes me, a brief moment of sincere insanity to clear my weary conscience.

I’m worried about you seeing my house

Why? Gotta dead body in there?

No, I‘m just boring. It's a boring house.

Refuse. It won’t be boring if you’re there.

But he doesn’t understand I am boring, boring as in bland, a philistine, a fake. I know nothing. He is the opposite; exciting, full of knowledge and art. A creative person. My antithesis. Another text interrupts me from my melancholy, a sharp noise in the quiet of my living room.

I’ll come over today and prove you wrong. If you’re free of course.

I am free. But I am trapped. If he sees my house he’ll see me for what I really am and that is tantamount to dying. I can’t help but look over the bare walls, bare floors, a staged room; it's artificial, a showroom, straight out of the box. In the few years I’ve lived here I’ve added nothing. It was fully furnished and the only additions were my laptop and a few practical items. Am I even a person? Does a person live here? I think I’m a ghost, an empty creature filled with nothing but work and sleep, repetitive, swirling, spirit.

By the time I’m ready to give in and let my life be upturned and destroyed in an instant another message comes to ruin my progress.

Actually…sorry. Something came up. Hows tomorrow? Your house still?

I agree, boldly, but my day feels empty, the walls paler, the sun dimmer, food blander.

Don’t worry, I'll still be here. Hope whatever it is will be okay!

Tomorrow comes quickly except the small eternity that is work. Even with my usual routine returned it feels more exhausting, as if I’m in a vivarium, but I know there is something outside my glass cubicle. An eyeless lizard learning the sun is real and it's not visible but it's warm.

We agreed to meet at the station, I gave him my address but with his classes and my work schedule the logistics matched up surprisingly well. I hoped to catch him on the train, a glimpse across the carriage, our eyes meet until nothing exists and he comes to sit beside me then we ride the rest of the way together. Except that besides the final destination they’re two separate lines that cannot touch.

The sunlight streams through the large windows of the small station, filling it with an off-orange hue that bounces off the shiny floors onto me so I have to cover my eyes for a second, a cool darkness, a relief in the moment.

“I’m that pretty huh?”

My hand drops immediately, my eyes meet his, dirty blonde hair glowing in the sunlight like a halo, beautiful, lovely, it's romantic. Until I open my mouth.

“No it was the sun.” I point past him to the windows.

He places his hand on my head, “You were supposed to say yes, you’re gorgeous.”

“Yes, you’re gorgeous.” His hand feels nice in my hair, a gentle weight, gentle touches through to my scalp, I’d let him touch me until I eroded into dust.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Michael smiles and slings his arm around my shoulders, “So straight to your place?”

“We could,” I still needed time to cope with my impending doom, to have a few moments of beauty and joy, to keep that arm around my shoulders a little longer, “I was hoping to get coffee.”

“Sure, I’m down.”

The nearest café is a chain shop, precise and soulless, exact matching shades of paint and fabric, every cup identical, every piece of art on the wall a photograph, it was a showroom. I missed the café in that moment.

I ordered and paid for both of us while Michael roamed around the floor as if he was looking for something. I waited for our coffee to be made but found my eyes drawn to him constantly, in the few moments he seemed almost out of view his expression would fall, just for a second a moment of something else came across him. I couldn’t place what.

I can’t bring myself to ask on the way home, he's smiling and chatting as if nothing is on his mind, until I mention my worries. They slip from my lips and it catches me off guard and I stop in the middle of the street.

“I want you to come, that’s not what I meant,” I wave dismissively, “I just…don’t judge me.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” Michael reassures me but it sounds off, like he thinks he has something to worry about.

“But you do?” I don’t quite meet his eyes, and he doesn’t meet mine.

“It’s fine.”

I take his free hand in my free hand, shifting my grip to hold both tighter, “Tell me what’s on your mind or I’ll worry its because of me.” He looks pained for a moment, I feel cruel, but squeeze his hand and hope he understands me.

“I got rejected for a scholarship. Again.”

“Oh,” I think for a moment, should I console him? Make a joke? Kiss him? “Will there be others?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then it must have been because they have bad taste.” Michael being self conscious is unsettling, it makes me want to kiss him, hold him close and pet his hair until he feels better, “You should keep trying, I believe in you, you’re good enough for anything.”

“Maybe you’re right.” A little light comes back to his eyes.

“You always seem so put together, seeing you like this is cute, sorry, I think it’s good to go outside your comfort level and putting yourself out there is definitely doing that. It’s impressive. Really impressive. Sorry.”

“Stepping outside your comfort zone?” A smile perks at the corner of his lips, “Like this?”

He frees his hand and slips it into my hair and pulls me into a kiss, it's a little aggressive, his lips forceful against mine, I think I see someone stare at us out of the corner of my eye and blush at how voyeuristic it all is. It isn’t bad. It’s just a kiss. But it feels daring, exciting, my heart trembles in my chest with a pain I normally experience in fear and anxiety.

I go to reach up and forget my hand is full, the lid of my coffee slips off and hits the floor spilling hot coffee over both of us. It burns for a second, fabric absorbing and holding it against my skin only to cool in an instant; a damp patch wicking the heat from my ankle.

“Oh!” I go to reach down and pick up the cup, empty, and place a hand on his leg where the stain is and realise I am useless in this situation, “Are you hurt?”

Michael just looks at me for a moment before placing his coffee cup on my head. I stay still, confused, is this revenge? Is he going to burn me back? My worries are answered immediately when he moves his bag to his side and pulls out a bunch of crumpled napkins and hands them down to me.

“I’m fine. But there are easier ways to get me out of my clothes.”

I blink up at him, he takes the coffee cup off my head and it's such a minimal change in weight, he holds the cup, empty, as I dab at both of our clothes. Mine will probably be fine, black barely stains but jeans are more of a problem, my problem, I notice in the fibres a dozen other stains; paint and something I don’t recognise across the thighs, it paints a picture of someone who balances things on his legs in lieu of a table.

The rest of the journey is less eventful, only the slight cool patch marking anything different, it's a distraction, a welcome one, I don’t even remember I was anxious until we reach my door where it comes back in full force.

I say nothing as I let him in first, his back blocks my view of his face and any emotion it might express.

“I see why you were worried.” Michael says, placing his bag down on my sofa, “It’s sparse, sure, but it suits you. Somehow.”

Because I’m boring.

“Minimal and reserved. But it’s not like you can’t change it if you want to. It’s just…A blank canvas.”