we exist somewhere else
“He throws these tantrums and fights because he wants you. He wants you and he can’t have you. And the more he sees it, the more mad he gets.”
The Man at the Front has just informed me that PN has been asking him, “Where’s that crazy girl?” In relation to me.
“And now, he’s made me his number one enemy.”
Labeling a girl as crazy never has a positive connotation. And it’s pretty transparent.
“I mean. It’s the irony. I haven’t set foot inside the bar since I’ve been back. But he sees me talking to you, to other guys. And he always makes a point of coming outside. To ‘smoke’. But he stands right beside me. And he won’t ever say anything. But he’ll make his presence known. To the point where a complete stranger asked me how long we’ve been dating the other night.”
“Listen, I never thought you were crazy. He’s like this big kid, he’s immature. That’s why I didn’t respond back to him. I really don’t want to get involved. But Emily, can you promise me something? Don’t fight with him tonight. Then I’ll have to separate you two and bring you outside to watch you both go at it in the parking lot.”
We both start to laugh.
“Well. At this point. Maybe that’s what we need.”
“I’ll get my popcorn ready.”
-
The first time I saw you, I didn’t think anything of it. In fact, I thought your friend was more attractive, and I was annoyed when he started to do shots with the two girls beside me. You saw me sitting alone, came over, and started speaking to me in Italian. I, embarrassingly admitted to you that I couldn’t speak Italian, that I only spoke English. “Oh.” You immediately switched. You were fluent. You spoke my language and I could barely understand yours. You asked me how long I’d be here for.
“They love the foreigners because they’re never here for a long time. 2 weeks maximum. The stereotype is that they’re easy, that they’re more free.”
I tell you that I’d be here for a year. I thought you’d be disappointed with my long term plans. But you looked at me, smiled, and said, “Good.”
What on earth was I doing at a bar where I knew absolutely no one? I knew nothing about that night, but everyone started to know me. Everyone started to know us.
-
I wasn’t offended at being called “crazy”. But what hurt was that this was someone that I used to care about. Someone who I used to trust. He wanted to illicit some reaction from me.
“Can I ask you something? Did you both ever sit down and have a conversation about this?” The Man At the Front asks me.
“No. The thing is, I can’t ever really verbalize how I feel about someone. But I can write it. So I wrote something and sent it to him. “What Isn’t Ours”. And it didn’t directly say how I feel, but there were…undertones.”
How much time does it take for a place to feel like home? Is there an amount of required time to call some place yours? And can we even call it ours if it doesn’t belong to us?
The Man at the Front raises his eyebrows and smiles. “And he loved it, I’m sure.”
“He did. And then I was here one night, and his attitude towards me…something was off. His girlfriend and son walked in. And I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
“He was caught.”
“Yup. She didn’t see me, she went into another room. So I glared at him, and asked him for the bill. And I remember. Peter Pan was working that night too, and even he scurried away.”
The Man at the Front shakes his head. It’s almost as if he wished he didn’t know, but now he’s in too deep.
“Then what happened?”
“He handed me the bill. And he wouldn’t let go of it. I tried to grab it from his hands, but he kept holding on to it. His eyes…it was a mix of…fear. Regret. Sadness. I ended up throwing a fifty on the bar counter. And I went to the wine bar next door and started to cry.”
“God, Emily.” He sighs and places his hand on his forehead. It’s all starting to make sense to him now.
“He wanted to meet up after. I was going to Australia, and he wanted to ‘arrange for a goodbye’. I told him that I had nothing to say to him.”
“So you left without saying goodbye?”
“I told him he’d never see me again. But, me being me, of course I came back in and brought a date, three weeks later.”
-
Now, it’s almost three years later. And the subject of our conversations haven’t changed much. I file the crazy comment into the back of my mind.
I set my beloved Fendi bag on the counter. He waves and walks over to me.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
I guess it’s written all over my face.
And in my usual corner spot, I sit down and sigh.
“I’m going to Milan on Monday. Staying there…for I don’t know how long. But I realized something. I always have a hard time leaving Rome because I’m happy here. After three years, I finally have my community, my friends. And I’m proud of myself. But then I also want to take every opportunity the universe gives me. It’s this weird dichotomy.”
He puts down the glass he’s cleaning and smiles. “You know I say the same thing to you every time.”
“I know. You told me to go to the sea. ”
He nods. “I remember. And I remember how scared you were to leave. And?”
“I loved it. It ended up being the best few months of my entire life.”
“Emily. Here’s the thing. You’re a writer. And you’re a beautiful writer. I’ve told you this, so many times. The way you write from your experiences - ”
“Are you just saying this because I’ve written about you?”
He starts to laugh. “Well, I have to be careful with what I tell you. I’m not going to tell you to go to Siberia, because then you’ll be miserable and you’ll write about how I told you to go. But Milan, Emily…” He smiles. “The bars, all the people that you’ll meet. The new experiences you’ll have. And you know Rome. Rome will always be here for you when you want to come back. It’s only a 3 hour train ride away. Rome is always here.”
“I know, I know. You’re right.”
“You don’t have anything, anywhere, or anyone tying you down to stay in one place. Emily, this is your time to go. Trust me.”
-
“Seems like you two are good.” The Man at the Front opens the door for me. He’s been watching from outside. I clutch my coat closer to my chest. We stand side by side.
“I told him about Milan.”
“And what did he say?”
“The same thing you told me. To go, to have a new experience. And that Rome isn’t going anywhere. Home isn’t going anywhere.”
“You know what else isn’t going anywhere? That tower.” He nods to the tower in the centre of the parking lot.
I look up at that tower and smile. The tiny stars that dot the sky. The man who owns the wine bar beside us. My favourite bakery up the road.
It always calls me back. It’s always here.
“So. We both said similar things to you about leaving. And you looked happy when I told you to go. But now you look sad.”
-
In another life. I’m sitting outside at a wooden table in a white dress. We’re up in the hills somewhere. Maybe Tuscany. The sun is setting. The colours - the pinks, the blues, the oranges. All stacked up on top of one another. My hair is always loose. I’m writing. I’m always writing.
He owns a bar, maybe. Or a restaurant. He tries to explain herbs and botanicals and plants to me. And the choices that people make when they choose a drink. The psychology of choice.
I’d nod enthusiastically, and pretend to be interested. I think he’d give up eventually. He’d kiss me on the cheek. “Can’t wait to read what you write.”
“What’s your secret?” People would ask us.
“We let each other be ourselves.”
-
Back inside, I decide to ask him.
In the softest, most non-confrontational tone I can muster up.
“I heard you were calling me crazy.” I even add in a smile.
He doesn’t look the least bit surprised that the Man at the Front told on him.
“Oh, Emily. I meant it in a good way.”
I roll my eyes. “You meant crazy in a good way?”
“Well, we’re all a little bit crazy, aren’t we? I’m crazy.”
“I mean, I know that.”
He smiles. “Emily. Come on. We have our little arguments. But then we’re good. We’re always going to be good.”
I sigh. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” I tell him. “I really, really don’t.”
The fighting is a mask for something else. It always has been.
I hold out my pinky finger. It’s juvenile, but it always seems to work.
His face softens. Our pinkies become intertwined.
“Promise me? No more fighting.”
I, Emily Mais, am making a 45 year old man make a pinky promise.
“Emily. I promise.”
Our last fight stemmed from jealousy on my part. It hurt me to watch him flirt with another girl. It did. And, ironically. He has been watching me flirt with other men for the past 2 years. The fights, his outbursts. The games. The jealousy. His nickname, “Triangle Eyes”. The tears. The many, many tears.
Grief is love with nowhere to go.
So it was time for me to be honest. Honest with him, and honest with myself.
“Can I tell you something else?”
“Of course.”
“When we met up that April. That spring. I felt something. And it took me a long time to shake it, a really long time. And sometimes I don’t know if I ever really did. But every conversation we had, every conversation we’ve ever had. It all meant something to me. And I just needed you to know that. That I’ll always appreciate them, and that I’ll always appreciate you.”
A look I’ve never seen before washes over his face. It’s a look of relief. A look of warmth. A look of comfort. Home.
“Me and you, Emy. We speak with our hearts. We always speak with our hearts.”
“Emily.” He places his hands on the bar and looks at me. The furrowed brow has disappeared.
My eyes start to water.
His voice is soft. “You have to go to Milan. You have to promise me that you’ll go. And then tell me all about your new life there. Your new friends, your new apartment. All of your new experiences. Promise me this, Emily. Promise me this, okay?”
Through my tears, I smile and nod. “I promise.”
And maybe they didn’t know it at the time. And maybe I didn’t know it either. But it was the kindest thing they could do for me. To set me free.
-
Leaned up against that white brick wall, the tears keep falling. But this time, I’m not alone.
The Man at the Front pulls out a pack of tissues from his pocket and hands me one. “I wish you had told me how you felt about him. From the very beginning.”
I take a few deep breaths. “It’s…I’m sorry. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m just…” I dab the corners of my eyes. I’m having a hard time finding the words.
My mascara is running.
“You don’t have to be sorry. And no, Emily. You’re not okay. You’re not fine. But it’s good that you’re not. I think, for the first time in a while, you’re being honest with yourself. And you were honest with him. You’re not the only person in the world that’s felt this pain, you know.”
“I didn’t want to tell you because I knew what everyone said about me. I’d walk in, and they’d all whisper to each other and say, “oh, his girlfriend is here.” And I knew he loved that. Meanwhile, his actual girlfriend was at home with his son. His actual girlfriend who owns this bar. I wanted to shake everyone and tell them we weren’t anything, but of course, I couldn’t say anything.
So, I had to tell myself that I was just another body to him. Just another girl. It became easier like that. Because knowing that I wasn’t, knowing that I meant a lot to him and knowing that everyone knew that, that was even more painful.
I met you, and it was a relief. You didn’t know about us. I could be myself, without that label following me around of being his property, his sidepiece. A label that I didn’t want in the first place.”
“Is that what you really thought? That you were just another body to him?”
“I knew about his reputation. So it wasn’t exactly a far-fetched thought. But it was always the way he’d look at me. The way we looked at each other. The hold we had on each other. That always gave it away.” The tears keep falling.
“Emily. You’re wonderful. You’re such a wonderful person. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re kind, you’re funny. I’ve always thought that about you. And for you to think you were just a body to someone…” He trails off.
I know there’s more that he wants to say, but he knows where my feelings lie.
-
We become invested in the things that hurt us. Well, I become invested. I become curious. And a lot of people run away, I’ve realized. But the things we lose, the things that leave us, the things we left behind, and the things we miss out on - if it didn’t feel like it killed us after, then was any of it ever real?
It’s hard to live in a love story, made up of two people, when only one of them feels like they are a main character. The other one feels like a mirage. He’s there, then he isn’t. He’s here, but he’s gone.
But you are always here. You’ve never actually left.
Maybe it’s not a love story. Or maybe this one is the best kind of love story. The one that will inevitably destroy you.
“It’s like Romeo and Juliet. Who would drink the poison first?” My best friend always tells me that he would.
I told myself that the third time would be the last time. But we never got that third time. And I never got the chance to tell you that I couldn’t do this anymore.
And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. But it was because I wanted to. I thought about it every single day and every single night.
I thought about you, every single day. And every single night.
I think I loved what we could have been the most. Or what we were and what we are, somewhere else.
Somewhere else. We exist, I’ll tell myself. We’ll always exist somewhere else.