who do i have to speak to?
to change the prophecy
Currently:
An iced Americano in the park. Everist body oil spritz. Coconut sunscreen on my chest, and on my shoulders. Long, red nails. A Brandy Melville navy mini dress. Hair damp, a leave-in conditioner in. Mermaid oil perfume. A vintage suede bag filled with 16 lipglosses. Phone on DND.
I’m on my second coffee of the day. I always go out for my second coffee, because it gets me out of the house. It forces me to have something to dress up for, something to feel put together for.
And I know it seems small to some, but to me - it’s a ritual. To choose a facial oil, gua sha, apply some gloss, spend those moments celebrating our time and our beauty, and to just walk. With no destination in particular.
My nails are always a point of conversation. Me and the girl at the coffee shop always bond over our colour choices.
“I ask my niece what colour I should get every time. It’s always a primary colour, but it always works.” She’s going with butter yellow tonight.
Me and the barista also discovered that we grew up in the same neighbourhood, we’re both writers, and we’ve both come back from living in Europe.
“I always feel like I need to justify my joy here.” I tell her.
“That’s exactly it. One time I asked a man for directions in Marseilles, and he bought me an ice cream cone and said, “Welcome to Marseilles!” Can you imagine that happening here?”
I start to laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”
-
When I went to Bordeaux last August, one of my favourite things to do was to listen to The Prophecy and find romantic courtyards to hide in.
I’d wear my oversized blue and white striped boyfriend shirt from Aritzia, and carry around a straw tote. It was meant for the beach, but I think it’s the perfect tote to pop a baguette into.
My body knew it was time to leave Rome. But my mind had a hard time catching up. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on why I needed to leave. I loved my life there. I did. But it felt like I had outgrown something. I always equated it to feeling like it was your last year of high school. You learned, you grew, you loved that place and the memories you made, and you knew you were never going to be the same.
But it was just … time.
-
After my iced coffee moment, I take a walk to the bookstore. My friend Karlie (I will always trust her book recommendations) has been screaming at me to read These Summer Storms. “The main character reminds me of you.”
That’s enough to sell me. And that’s a love language in itself - isn’t it?
I pick up a copy, and one of the girls who works there comes over to tell me how much she loved it.
“Did you ever watch that show with Nicole Kidman? The Perfect Couple?”
“Oh my god. Yes. I binged it in two nights.”
It was when I first came back to the city in October. OFM was sending me photos of his golf weekend with the boys. I was curled up on the sofa until 4 AM, completely immersed in this rich family’s scandal, and the lengths they went to portray perfectionism.
“It’s very similar to that show.” She then shows me another book I might like. “This one is a love story. There’s a very strong female protagonist, but it’s…kind of sad.”
“Perfect. I’ll get that one, too.”
-
“I just don’t understand how he rationalizes what he does.” I text my best friend. “I made it so easy for him. A clean break. All he had to do was reply with - “All the best, Emily.”
“Privilege doesn’t need to rationalize. They can just escape. I also believe he’s truly banking on the idea that maybe one day when he’s ready - you’ll be there.” She texts back.
I’m on a patio, sipping my second or third margarita. Coincidentally (but is it a coincidence?) - both the hostess and server’s name is Emily. It’s giving Barbie World. It’s giving - it’s Emily Mais’ world, and OFM is (barely) living in it.
I have my orange straw bag with me. The hostess tells me she loves it.
“I feel like I’ve seen you here before.”
“You definitely have. I came here on my birthday.”
“Yes! And I complimented you on your outfit.”
The orange bag. The denim mini. The cowboy boots. Approximately 20 minutes before the OFM run-in.
“The thing is - he doesn’t want to be civil and he never wants to fully end it, either. So he just keeps it bouncing in the air.”
I order another marg and a plate of chicken fingers and fries.
“Agreed.” I text her back.
-
I make my way to my usual bar. I haven’t been here in a while. I make a silent prayer that MFB isn’t working.
“Is he in?” I see one of the many familiar faces.
This host starts to laugh. “No, you’re safe.”
My corner spot is free. Behind the bar is one of the older bartenders. He’s also from France, and always reminded me of PN, in the sense of - he sees things, knows things, understands things, but doesn’t say anything.
“Darling.”
“My friend. I haven’t seen you in a while.” I set my books and orange bag on the bar counter.
“Wine?”
“Tequila.”
“Oh. She’s doing something different.”
He makes some sort of pink margarita with a black cherry on top.
I take a sip. “I have to tell you something.”
He sets his forearms down on the bar and leans in closer. “I’m listening.”
“Do you remember when I came in here with that guy?” I’m referring to my OFM birthday night. We sat at the bar. This bartender served us, but he also did not make it known that he knew who I was. MFB was working upstairs that night, but I was cautious. Me and OFM were holding hands at the bar, and there might have been a few points when he started kissing my wrist. But that was it.
He starts to laugh. “Yes, I remember.”
“We’ve been…off and on in something for 8 years.”
He raises his eyebrows. “8 years? That’s a long time, Emily.”
“I know. And it just … never works. I keep trying to rationalize why it’s not working. He now wants to move to Etobicoke and get a house and start a family -”
“And you?”
“I want to move. Somewhere else. Not here.”
“Did you tell him this?”
“No. But I think he knows. Deep down. Anyways, we got into a fight about something else and now I’m blocked.”
“He blocked you?” This bartender now changes positions, and is now leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed.
I really wonder what this bartender thinks of me. First, it was the 42 year old man. Then, it was MFB. Then, it was the drawn out saga between MFB and the *tall and handsome* server. And now, a brief appearance by OFM.
He’s probably thinking: What does this girl do to these men?
I would be thinking the same thing.
“Yup. It kind of reminds me of MFB. You tell them something they don’t want to hear, call them out, or you don’t fit into what they expect of you. And all of the sudden - you’re public enemy number one.”
His face softens a bit. “He shouldn’t have blocked you, Emily.”
“Trust me, I know.”
In this moment, I sense sympathy from him. He was the one I told, back in April, “I’m tired of feeling like a pawn.” To which he responded, “Well - that’s on being a woman.”
“I wouldn’t have blocked you. I would have just…communicated.”
I sigh and finish my margarita.
“What’s next? Pepperoni pizza or a hamburger?” He knows my go-to’s.
I place my hand over my heart. “Pizza. 2 slices here and 2 slices for breakfast.”
He punches in the order and then comes back to me.
“You want my advice? Start a new chapter.”
We both glance around at the regulars. The older man with a younger woman, two men escaping their wives, two young girls who haven’t smiled once. He nods towards the other patrons. “Get out of this scene.”
I smile. “To be honest with you? I don’t think I was ever really in it.”