the ones we prayed for

I do love, love. But I do not fall in love easily.

“It’s only happened once” my best friend reminds me, as I fill her in on the night before. 

I think I was born with this somewhat innocent vision of the world, and I wonder if I still seem naive to some. But now, at 29, I believe that I have witnessed every dark thing imaginable to a human. I have watched death, I have watched endings, I have watched hospitals and life expectancies and blood cell counts. I have watched infidelity and the loss of trust and the act of threats and miscommunication and endings and new beginnings and apologies and every experience that sorries begin to offer us.

I never want to be a bother, in fact, I never really want to be noticed. But it might be the heat and the crowds and the prioritization of the wrong people that is hitting me all at once.

I listen to the waitress on the phone and look down at my worn sneakers. I am always wondering if he thinks about Saturday night with the green dress and the combination of cigarettes and amaro on Sunday afternoons. 

I do not like being rushed or told what to do. Which is why I believe Italy suits me so well. No one will dare rush me or instruct me what to do with the hours of my day. 

And maybe that is why I’ve had a hard time forgetting. Maybe he explained what I felt for so long and couldn’t put into words. 

I take a sip of water from the bottle in my purse because now I fear getting too vulnerable.

I haven’t slept in a week. Hangovers do not exist anymore, and they convince me it will be easier to move on from something that never happened. 

Today I am reminded of why I do not fall easily. 

There is a breeze in this 40 degree weather, and one lime wedge that sits at the bottom of my water glass. There’s always magic that lingers in between each table and other conversations. I did not want to write today, because I have never written anything that has never lived from my heart. And art has a way of knowing things before we do.

I spent the morning with my eyes closed, having a conversation with the dead and wondering what she would tell me. 

But why won’t anyone hear me?

The man playing guitar smiles at me, and I wonder if he has afternoons where he hides from his art and asks for answers when he has none, too. I regret looking away too quickly, and I now am I left wondering what it would be like to fall in love with an artist. One would assume that two artists should not fall in love, in order to preserve some sanity. 

I wish, more than anything, for her to be sitting next to me. At this cafe underneath the canopy trees and beside the pink and orange terracotta with the white shutters. In the 40 degree heat, with the lime squeezed into our water and our empty espresso cups that would sit side by side.

She would inevitably list his flaws, and I would smile and laugh, because she always would remind me of who I was. But after a while, tears would start to form underneath both of our dark sunglasses, and she would squeeze my hand and say, “I know”.

I am reminded of why I do not fall. Because when the pain comes, I cannot talk myself out of it. 

It’s only happened once in ten years, she reminds me.

And we never have the intention of falling. But does anyone ever intend on it? It’s always when our backs our turned, and when our eyes are mesmerized by everything else around us, we are suddenly taught how it feels for someone to carry us home.

And I wonder if he knew how it would end from the beginning. And I wonder when said he wished for more time, if he was wishing for a different one.

I am not naive to love, and I am not naive to you. I will add falling in love to the list of things I have never been able to control.

My best friend tells me that novelty will wear off. It always does. And I am thankful that she will be her voice for the rest of the afternoon.