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in with Pâro: The Feeling That Everything You Do Is Somehow Wrong https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7l2hUp0CkQ
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Jan 3, 2024 21:21
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 13:29 |
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Pâro: The Feeling That Everything You Do Is Somehow Wrong https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7l2hUp0CkQ Three Little Words 1499 words You never really know, do you? No matter how many times you say it, no matter how many times you hear it in return, you can’t ever really be sure. The first time you say it, you definitely aren’t sure—you probably aren’t even sure of your half of the equation. You aren’t even sure the words will come out right. It’s only three words, and there are no replacements--I, and love, and you—but you still worry that you’ll say it wrong. The first time you say it, the first first time, you have no clue what’s happening. You start feeling like those three little words might apply to the person sitting across the dinner table from you, and that maybe you should tell her. And you work up the courage, again and again, though never quite enough, but eventually, your mouth betrays you and says something like, hey, can we talk? and now you have to say something significant, because hey, can we talk? never precedes [/i]what are we having for dinner?[/i] And you know in your head that you have to say the three words, because if what you are feeling in your heart isn’t love, then you don’t know what love is. Which you might not. But then she says those four little words, same as the three little words plus one more, and now you know. Or, at least, you think you know. (But you never really know.) Kelly is the third woman I’ve said it to. The first (Sasha) was in high school, and definitely neither of us knew what we were doing, but we said I love you a lot. And then we went to separate colleges, and you know how it goes. Was it love? I don’t know. It felt like it then. The second (Denise) was just after college, and that was love. I am sure. Which is a bummer, because I screwed that one up, and she, rightfully, dumped my sorry rear end. Hope she’s doing well. The first time I said it to Kelly was six months in. It was a on Saturday, one of those special early spring days that seem only to happen in California—the sun is out, it’s 68 degrees, the air is crisp, there’s the barest hint of a breeze and the sky is scattered with clouds like soft cotton; your soul feels attuned to the earth, feeling kinship not with your fellow man but with the blossoming tulip because the world is as it should be. We were going to a wedding that afternoon, and I’d gotten to her place early. I hadn’t really planned on today being the I love you day, but I was feeling great. (Isn’t it strange how much the order of events matters? It rained the next day; what if it had been raining that afternoon? What if the wedding had been a week earlier? Would I still have said it?) I knocked on the door of her townhouse, and she shouted from behind the door: “Be there in a minute!” I stood there with a hopeful smile and a pounding heart, because I’d just decided I was going to tell her. I can’t really tell you why. It just felt right. She opened the door an indeterminate amount of time later (perhaps you, too, understand this peculiar sort of time dilation), and she looked beautiful. I told her so; “You look pretty,” I said. Her mouth curled in a not-quite smile and she replied, flatly, “Thanks,” as she continued to fuss with one of her earrings. “I have to tell you something,” I blurted out. She pulled her hand from her ear and looked at the earring between her finger and thumb. “Can it wait a second, babe? I need to…” Her voice trailed off and she turned and walked to the bathroom. “Uh, sure,” I said dumbly into the empty hallway, as I stood outside the door. Another indeterminate amount of time passed, punctuated only by a couple soft “ouches” and a muttered “dammit”, and then she returned, earrings in place. “Babe, why are you standing outside?” She asked, and looked at me curiously. “Come in! Are those flowers for me?” “Yes!” I said, and smiled, and held them out to her; she grabbed them and vanished into the kitchen. She was already at the sink filling a vase with water when I rounded the corner. “Did you mean to say beautiful?” She said, without looking up. She set the vase down and began cutting stems. “Huh?” I said, confused. “You said I looked pretty.” She paused her cutting and turned to face me, standing in the doorway, smile faltering. “You call a stranger pretty. You call flowers pretty. You call your girlfriend beautiful.” “Then I meant beautiful. Sorry.” I made a note of this—beautiful; never pretty, always beautiful—but despite the clarification, the joy of moments ago which had felt solid now felt unsettled, confused. “Okay then,” she said, turning back to the flowers, and placing them delicately in the vase. “Thanks for the flowers. They’re lovely.” (Where did lovely fit in the list of acceptable adjectives?) “What did you want to tell me?” I have spent years trying to reconstruct this moment; I’ve tried to write it down, to capture the specific details of that first exchange, but while adrenaline sharpens your senses and slows time to a crawl in the moment, it turns your brain fuzzy afterward. Then time starts to undermine whatever certainty you thought you had. Here’s what I do know: 1. I said, “I love you.” 2. She paused. I don’t know for how long. 3. She said, “I love you, too.” 4. We kissed. It was a good kiss. 5. We had a great time at the wedding. Another thing of which I am certain: I never again—not that night, not any other moment in our relationship, and not on any day since—felt as joyful as I did in that moment before I reached her door, sun shining, flowers blooming, love and certainty in my heart. In the years that followed, we said I love you a lot, but I learned that the four little words are not the same as the three little words. Maybe it’s selective memory, but her I love you’s always came with a too. That particular ritual of words solidifies things in your mind, over time, but rituals are not commitments, and words can be lies. I know that I loved her; I think that she loved me. Did she ever love me? Was our relationship poisoned in that first moment of I love you, because of bad sequencing? What if I’d just said beautiful, like I’d meant to say? What if I’d just shown up on time, and she wasn’t in the middle of getting ready? I’m standing at my own door now. I check my pockets (phone, wallet, keys). I touch my chest, feeling the sunglasses hanging there. I tug on the strap of the Princess Zelda backpack slung over my shoulder, then slide it off and rifle through it—jacket, snacks, a small gift for Riley (my daughter), wrapped in brown paper (a Link action figure—she’s into Zelda right now, obviously)— “Mike, you’ve checked that bag three times since you came downstairs,” Lianne says and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at her: oversized sweater, warm coffee in her hand, kind smile on her face. “Just go get Riley.” “I know, I know. It’s just, I don’t want to forget anything.” “You don’t forget things, Mike. Kelly forgets things. Remember when they forgot to feed Riley breakfast? Kelly and… Frank,” she says with some heat and a sneer, which is strangely calming. “Do you want me to go with you?” “No. You know Kelly freaks out when—” She cuts me off. “Right, right. The audacity of that bitch. It’s been two years. And she’s the one living with that doucheba—sorry, sorry. I know you’re just worried about the hearing next week.” She sets her coffee down and steps in front of me, one hand on each shoulder. She smiles softly. “Mike.” “Yeah.” I feel small, like a child. “You’re a good man.” I am unable to respond. My chest tightens, and I can feel tears well in my eyes. She pulls me to her. “I love you,” she says. You never really know. I’m not even sure of my own half of the equation. I believe I love Lianne, but I believed that about Kelly, too. Maybe that’s just old wounds, accumulated doubt. Maybe Kelly broke something in me. Maybe I broke something in myself. Or maybe it’s not about knowing. Maybe the not knowing is the point. Maybe it’s about not knowing, but trusting, and doing anyway. “I love you,” I say. Lianne is the fourth. Hopefully the last. You never really know. “Okay. I’ll be back.”
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Jan 8, 2024 06:38
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in flash
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Jan 11, 2024 04:27
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