you made me a poet

Can I ask you something?

Do you ever worry about yourself?

It’s never like how it was when we were younger. My mom always knew something was off before I did. But now that responsibility weighs on me.

To worry about you, to worry about yourself.

—

I brew coffee in the morning and place my hands on my waist while I wait. I feel something. Bone. I am naturally small, but I make a mental note to actually examine my body before I shower.

I open my fridge. Breakfast is…it always used to be 3 eggs. But for some reason, I’m never that hungry until 2 PM anymore. That’s when a little flicker goes off.

Appetite: dwindling.

Sleep: normal-ish.

Alcohol intake: increasing.

Italy enhanced my tolerance for drinking. It’s engrained into the culture. A shared bottle of wine with a friend at lunch. A spritz at aperitivo. Another shared bottle of wine at dinner. And you never felt terrible. You never felt overly emotional. The room rarely spun. You just felt light, you just felt like you.

But here, it’s different. I’m weary of my limit. I’m aware that over 3 will give me a headache, and anything over 4 will lead me into the realm of unpredictability.

-

I decide to take myself out to a patio for lunch. I’m wearing one of my favourite white Zara dresses and my orange straw bag with my multicoloured Fendi scarf attached. A debit card with 6 lipglosses is inside.

The bar where MFB works has one of my favourite patios. And it’s lunch, so the chances of me running into him are slim.

I see one of my favourite bartenders instead and give her a hug.

“I missed you.” I tell her.

“I know! I haven’t seen you in so long.”

It feels like I’m in Italy again. White wine, the sun. After a few glasses, I finally order focaccia and their tomato and ricotta salad. I cut the tomatoes into tiny slices and make sure the ricotta covers each bite. For some reason, I can’t eat any of the bread. But I will have more wine.

My friend finishes work early and joins me. My bartender-friend leaves and whispers “Good luck” before MFB takes over. I can smell his YSL cologne from a mile away.

“You look…tanned.” I tell him. His blue eyes pop more than usual.

I think he’s taken aback by my compliment. “Really? I guess. I don’t know.” He starts examining his arms.

“Ya. There’s like, a bit of a farmer’s tan situation happening.”

He rolls up a bit of his t-shirt and examines his skin colour further. “Ya. I guess.”

It doesn’t matter what I say to him, or rather, what we don’t say. Each and every interaction I have had with him since after hooking up with him once in March has been nothing short of awkward or terrible, or a combination of both.

I give my friend the rest of my wine.

“Wow. Emily Mais is giving me her wine. This is a first, everyone.”

The lack of appetite has sped up my tipsiness. We sit in the corner and gossip. MFB hovers, and is pretending not to listen, but I know he is.

“I know I will always get the crazy narrative.” I tell her. “But it’s because I will always tell the truth, and it’s never something they actually want to hear.”

When I slept at MFB’s, I was surprised at how solid and gentle his hands were. I was always used to the way OFM’s hands felt - like he had owned my body.

But sex was quick with them both. And it always started the same. Their hands outlining my torso as we both pretended to sleep. Then I’d turn to face them. They’d quickly know their place, and I’d guide their hand to the base of my neck. Tell them exactly what it was that they’d want to hear. But right before it was over, that’s when I’d really let myself look at them.

My friend leaves. I get MFB to make me a cosmo - but with half of the alcohol that’s in a normal cosmo.

He leaves the bar as I drink, and only comes back when I ask the other bartender for my bill. I am used to this move. PN used to do it, too. If we weren’t in a good place, he’d busy himself somewhere else in the bar, or hide in the kitchen. Avoiding.

To my surprise, MFB didn’t charge me full price. An olive branch, maybe.

But I think of his hands and how gentle he was. How it never felt like he got off on the control. And I feel sad.

I catch his eye on the way out. He has his arms crossed and is leaned up against the counter furthest away from me. He tips his baseball hat towards me. I mouth, “thank you.” And to my surprise, I still stand there. And he still stands there. And we both just stare at each other, for an extra few seconds. Two girls turn to look at me. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

I smile instead and leave. I make my way down the street.

It’s breezy and warm, it’s a Friday night in the city. I don’t want to go home yet. I pick up pizza dough from my favourite Italian bakery.

-

Can I tell you something? Being with OFM made the city feel different. It always did. Like it became more alive. More sparkling.

“Every time I see you…it’s like seeing you for the first time all over again.” He tells me on the night of my birthday.

I decide to walk into the bar that I promised him I’d never take anyone else. “It’s our spot” he called it. “I have eyes now.” And I am holding up my end of the deal. I walk in alone, wearing my white dress and carrying my orange straw bag.

I make eye contact with the bartender, smile, and seat myself down on the old leather chairs.

I am the only girl at this bar. I get a few looks. There are about 6-7 men seated around me. I hear Irish accents. Their eyes, just like OFM’s always were - are glued to the TV in front of them. Some sort of sports is on. I have no idea what they’re watching.

The bartender comes over to me.

“What can I get for you?”

“A tequila soda, please. And a phone charger if you have one. Oh. And do you mind popping my pizza dough in the fridge?”

“Absolutely. I respect the pizza dough. And put your phone on Airplane mode. It’ll charge quicker. I’ll plug it into the wall behind you.”

I like this man. A sign of a good bartender is that they’ll always watch over the young girl who comes in alone.

A few finance bros come in and ask for a table. The bartender points to the empty tables all around.

“These guys really need to unclench their jaws a little bit. It’s okay to breathe, gentlemen.”

I start to laugh. “I love to hate them, too. They’re such interesting and heavily flawed characters.”

“You work in the industry, too?”

“No. I’m a writer.”

“Oh. It just seems like you know -

“My way around a bar?” I start to laugh.

“Something like that.” He’s warm.

“I feel like writers and bartenders are similar. It’s all about the art of observation.”

He pours me a shot of something. I think it’s Baileys with a bit of crushed ice. I happily take the free shot.

“The last time I was here was in the winter.” I tell this bartender. “I’m trying to reclaim spots where me and my … this guy who I was seeing went.”

I look over to the end of the bar, where we both sat on that Sunday evening in January. An Edward Scissorhands snow fall. 4 martinis in. My legs draped over his lap. Me telling him we’d never be together. Him rolling his eyes and saying “you can’t say never, Emily.” Me quoting, “Grief is For People”. Me telling him I bought that book, so I could better understand his pain of losing his best friend. My way of rationalizing his behaviour. The way we fought and took a million and one photos together and kissed like it was only us two left on the planet.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it? How certain places become tied to certain people.” He hands me my tequila soda.

“Totally. And how you wonder if you can make new memories in those places. Or if those moments of good were only going to be reserved for them. Your washrooms are downstairs, right?”

He nods. “Straight past the stage, then down the set of stairs.”

I walk by the stage where the band played a cover of “Sorry.” And when we danced and when I told him I had a crush on him, and when he told me “I’ve had a crush on you for the past eight years.”

I go to the bathroom, close the door to the stall, and start to cry. I think of how that January night led to the Plan B night. I don’t even bother wearing my sunglasses to cover up my puffy eyes as I walk back to my seat. I can only stomach half of my tequila soda. And I hope I am scaring every single man at this bar.

“How’s the reclamation going?” The bartender comes over to me.

“I keep crying, so.”

“I think it’s brave, to be honest.”

“To get drunk by myself?”

“It’s not getting drunk by yourself. It’s more like…you’re facing something. What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

He reaches over the bar to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Emily.”

-

I don’t remember the walk home from the bar. All I remember is paying for my tequila soda, the new bartender telling me that his shift starts at 3 tomorrow, and that he hopes that I’ll come back.

The rest of the evening, I will cry. I will roll out the pizza dough, like my Nonno used to. I will crush the tomatoes by hand, like he used to, too. And I will cry, I will cry, and I will cry. I will force myself to eat one slice of pizza. I will drink ice water. I will take a cold shower. But the tears don’t stop. They never stop. I use my favourite face wash. My phyto-retinol and moisturizer. I sit on the edge of my bed. And the tears keep falling. I think of the unfairness of it all. And I look around at my beautiful apartment and feel more sad, because it’s so beautiful and I shouldn’t be crying this hard - but I can’t help it anymore. And it’s in this moment where I feel worry. I feel her worry. And I want to tell her that I’m sorry and please don’t worry about me - because I will figure out a way. I will always figure out a way. But I also want to tell her that it is so hard. And that my heart feels heavy and that sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe under all it’s weight. Because everyone I have ever loved has left me. And I think I have lost everyone that I have ever loved. And maybe the problem is me. And maybe Hot F. was right when he said, “It is hard to picture a future with a girl who doesn’t feel stable.” Because I am not stable. I do not know what stable is. I only know how to exist on one pillar, my pillar. I spend holidays alone. And this always upset OFM. “We are not the same.” I tell him. “I do not have what everyone else has. What they have - doesn’t exist in my world. To have what they feel - the closest I get to it is - when I’m not actually here.”

And I can’t carry it anymore. That’s what the tears are saying.

And I think about that quote in “Grief is For People”:

“How will he know you loved him, unless you try to destroy yourself?”