…of a song you sent me 4.5 years ago, one of so many others you sent to speak your feelings better than you could (though there was never anything better than your words).
I’m walking home from a date, these years after you sent me this song. Another date where yet another fucking idiot made a joke once the question regarding emotional status and past relationships arose. (This one was some version of the, “Oh you’re dangerous!” garbage I’ve heard far too many times.)
I never flinch when this happens, so used to it I am by now. But neither do I ever allow them to feel anything but shame for their fucking cruel insensitivity.
I do not frown nor smile. My breathing doesn’t change, I don’t even move. I stare into them, unblinking, until i see the realization cross their face that they crossed a deep line.
Then the back peddling begins: apologies, sometimes a move to touch me or take my hand. Sometimes they stammer, their eyes growing wide. Or, worse, much worse, they attempt to lighten the mood by smiling, telling (themselves more than me) that it was a joke. Smiling broadly with their mouths but not their eyes. Willing me to relax my shoulders that have not moved, have not turned away, have not softened. I let them talk until they have comforted themselves sufficiently.
I might let them continue to touch my leg, my hair, my shoulder. I may answer questions, I might talk about my experience, or not. I may even let them kiss me. But my eyes stay dead for the remainder of the encounter, which is always shorter than they want.
Then I end up walking home with your music, the playlist I made of every song you ever sent me. Feeling your message behind them, eyes wet and blurring and heart racing. I walk through the dark, imagining that you are waiting for me, somewhere, so I can stop.
Britt at Large 