I remember you, when we were young. We unzipped a sleeping bag, spread it out on the carpet, and sat on the floor picnic style to watch a video tape.
Who needs a couch anyway?
Our backs would ache and I would lay my palms flat behind me and lock my elbows.
Me, I a couch.
You offered to let me lean on your chest for support, but I didn’t trust you. If I put my head on your shoulder, I knew you’d want to kiss me; and I didn’t trust you not to try. And sure, I could pull away and say no, but that’s not a conversation I wanted to have.
So I shifted my weight from one arm to another and ignored my palms’ protests.
Eventually, I finally did take you up on that offer to lean on you. And I was right not to trust you, but I was surprised that you accepted my rejection. You said, “okay,” and we watched the movie.
(You were just being a decent human being, and maybe it was rape-culture that made me believe the fact that you respected my answer made you a gentleman. But that’s not my point.)
I remember you that July. I remember your face in the pinkish glow of Christmas lights I hung in the living room. I remember your drive and uncertainty and how you were filled with so much life and energy.
And now you’re still driven, and a little more certain, with just as much life and a little less energy.
Do you remember me? Miss Independence? Not needing anything from anyone. Swallowing her depression, inwardly falling apart while outwardly taking her pills and eating her happiness. Do I remember her right? She was waiting for her chance to take on the world. I’m not sure she ever took it. Or if she and me are still the same.
