i am mine, before i am anyone else’s
could someone give a message to the smallest man who ever lived?
Monday Morning Gratitude:
Waking up after a ten-hour sleep and a Sunday “duvet day”.
The neighbour’s laundry is hanging up to dry outside, and the breeze is blowing the scent of fresh laundry into my living room.
Cold espresso.
Writing.
Realizing that I wrote “What Isn’t Ours” exactly two years ago.
White lounge sets.
Today is a Canadian holiday, which means I don’t have to work.
I want to make a greek salad for dinner.
Hi,
It’s the end of a week, and the beginning of a new one.
Grief anniversaries = brain fog. I think, next year, I’m just going to name this week: Rose Mais Week. Mother’s Day, the anniversary of her passing, and then my parent’s wedding anniversary/day of her memorial service - all wrapped up in one, long, 7 day week.
On these days, I’m irritable. I’m exhausted. I long for what I don’t have, and I envy those who do. And it’s not even the reserved breakfasts or brunches that I’m longing for, but it’s the smaller things. A short phone call, a cup of tea. A hug. The “I love you”. That feeling of falling into something, and knowing that there is a safety net to catch you.
On grief days, I stay under the covers. My body knows it’s safe there. I keep the lights off. I make pastina. I wash my hair. I make a mental recording of the friends who have checked in, and my Aries moon will make the mental recording of those who haven’t. I have carried my grief alone for so long, that I just want to take it off.
I want to unload the heaviness. I want to put it down some place. I want to put it down somewhere. But there is nowhere to put it, and there is no one who will take it from me.
So, I decide to make a list of things that are going to make me happy.
A new white dress. A tattoo. A manicure. An eyebrow wax. A new face mask. An afternoon at my favorite coffee shop. And, of course, a night at the bar.
-
At 7 PM on a Saturday evening, I decide to take a walk. I decide to take a walk through the city, right at the start of Rome’s golden hour. I’m wearing my new white dress. The tattoo on my neck is healing. My hair is air-dried, which never bodes well with the humidity, but we’ll appreciate the volume it gets.
“I have to tell you something.”
I’m on the phone with my friend back in Toronto.
“I realized something. On paper, we couldn’t really trust PN. The Man at the Front. The Manager. But out of everyone here, and out of everyone I’ve met. I trust them the most.”
My friend starts to laugh. “And doesn’t that say a lot.”
I’ve always allowed them to see the real me. And maybe it’s the dirty martinis that allow me to be vulnerable. Or maybe there’s some sort of magic that lies in between the clear sky, the parking lot, and the tower that stands in the centre of it all.
I arrive at my favourite wine bar across the road from the bar, and order a glass of Pecorino. She’s sold out, but gives me a glass of Vermentino, instead.
“It’s my favourite”, she tells me.
And it quickly becomes my new favourite, too. After I finish my glass, me and my little white dress cross the street.
The bar’s patio is open tonight. Tall trees create a canopy over the tables, couples are engrossed in conversation. You can’t escape the smell of cigarettes.
The air is sticky, but it’s full of promises.
“Look at you.” The Man at the Front raises his eyebrows and looks me up and down with a smile. “You’re like the sun. You’ve brought everyone in.” Behind me, a line has started to form. The White Dress Effect. It’s in full swing.
I take my usual position. Leaned up against that white brick wall. I watch him as he goes through the guest list. Eyeing each customer, one by one. Sometimes, they’ll greet us both, thinking that I work there too. I never correct them.
Do they have reservations? Check. Are they abiding by the dress code? Check.
I’m grateful when the line dies down.
“I’m telling you. It was empty, and then you showed up.”
The Man at the Front starts to tell me the drama of the week. There’s a new hostess. She has an attitude, and the Man at the Front doesn’t like her. They’ve already got into a fight, and the manager has already had to separate them.
“Well. Now I don’t like her, either. You know I’ll always take your side over everyone else’s.”
“How’s your tattoo?”
I texted him photos this week.
“Good. I took off the wrapping yesterday.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and tilt my neck to the side.
“Okay. Don’t do that to me.”
I start to laugh. “What? Do what?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing. I have to get close to your neck to see it. And…”
“And what?”
“And use your imagination.”
“This is your place of work. You’re a professional.”
I love our back and forth.
“I wasn’t too professional when I kissed you over there.” He nods towards the floor to ceiling window, where everyone was witness to that make out, the summer prior. “It was thrilling, though.”
We’re both laughing. And after this week, it’s exactly what I needed.
“I was on the phone with my friend, on the way here. I was telling her how, out of everyone I’ve met here. It’s you, and it’s…(I motion towards the manager inside) “I just. I’ve just really grown to trust you guys.”
It’s gone beyond you being a regular. My best friend texts me. It’s a friendship. I truly believe that they have your best interest at heart.
“You’re getting closer to him.” He’s also referring to the manager. “And I’m happy about that. I know you two didn’t speak for a while.”
After PN’s outburst that night, everyone was forced to tread lightly with me. The manager would examine PN’s face before approaching me at the bar. If PN was in a good mood, then he’d approach. And if he wasn’t, then it was both of us exchanging a greeting with a sympathetic smile.
“It wasn’t normal, what he was doing.”
“I know.”
“He wanted to possess you.”
I nod. “And the more you try to control me, the lengths that I will go to prove you can’t.”
“I’m sorry that you had to go through that. That he put you through that. I really am.”
But it was hearing the words, “I’m sorry”, that struck something in me.
And from my corner spot, I look up at him. “Listen. I’m sorry. For everything.”
For the games. For my actions that were derived from pain. For the Peter Pan of it all.
I never regret not waiting around for something that wasn’t going to happen.
And I never regret choosing my own freedom.
But I was sorry for the pain that I had caused him. And that’s what apologies are for: a recognition of pain.
Out of everyone, The Man at the Front and The Manager had both witnessed the pain that PN had put me through. And though I could understand it - his frustration, his self-imposed cage, the resentment he had towards his own life. It didn’t mean that it was right, or that I deserved it.
But I loved him. I loved him. I did. And as terrible as this is about to sound. His anger was his grief, and his grief was his vulnerability. And I, more than anyone, understands what it is like to feel both, simultaneously. Love and anger. Love and grief. So I held on to those moments. Because that’s the only way I knew he still cared.
“You want to go inside tonight? There’s space on the other side.”
The First Date Room.
I nod. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
I walk inside, past the room with the main bar. My heart still skips a beat every time I walk past it. My mind knows that I won’t see him, but the body remembers.
The body always remembers.
I see the manager and tap him on the shoulder.
He turns around. “Ah! Emily! You look beautiful.”
I pull back from our hug, and look him up and down. “And you always look great.” Which he does. He always has these great blazers. Everything fits him well.
Truth be told, I’ve been wondering lately. Ever since that Monday evening (Hallucinations), I’ve wondered what it would be like. A second or a third date. A little romance. It doesn’t have to be the end all, or be all. But what if it could have meaning? What if it could just be, a little something?
He had taken me to a speakeasy last January, and we had a beautiful night. It was one of those nights where I wasn’t sure if it was a date, or if it was just a hang out. We talked until 4 AM. He walked me home.
We lingered at my door, we lingered for a while, but he didn’t kiss me.
I didn’t feel butterflies, but I did feel comfort. I did feel at ease.
“Most girls here…a lot of them don’t do this alone. You’re free, it’s very beautiful.”
And it was a beautiful moment, a moment where I decide to get honest with him.
“I love this life. It’s my favourite life. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have that one place, that one spot. Instead of carrying it with me everywhere, I wish I had something to always sink back into.”
“Ah. It’s the yin and the yang, isn’t it?
I sit down, and order my usual. I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Is this seat taken?”
I smile at him. “It’s all yours.”
The Manager knows everything. He knows that I loved PN. He knows that I spend the majority of my time talking to the Man at the Front. He knows that I leave, and that I come back. That I always leave, but that I always come back. He knows that I’m always happy to see him, and I know that he’s always happy to see me, too.
He slides in next to me. “Barcelona.”
“What?”
“Your next move. I think you’d love it.”
“Really? How come?”
“The people, the lifestyle. Everyone’s happy. The food, the drinks. It’s a great scene. There’s a good work-life balance, too.”
“Hmm. Honestly, I’ve never thought about Spain.”
“I’ll take you.”
“To Barcelona?”
“For the weekend. You can see how you like it.”
I examine his face for any sign of humour, but I think he’s being serious.
Whether he is joking or not, I can feel colour rising in my cheeks. I smile.
“Ok.”