another life
the memories of girlhood
i found old journal writings from when i was in my mid twenties and found it so fascinating to read about men i had dated and the experiences they gave me and the feelings i felt so intensely. some i remember in detail, some i don’t remember at all. i read these entries of younger me with such a fondness. i really love her and i wish i could tell her that she was right and everything will turn out okay.
it’s 10:17 pm and i am on the train. there’s a lady across the aisle reading a tattered copy of atonement by ian mcewan and i wonder if this is her personal copy or if she borrowed it from the library. i wonder if this is a book she reads routinely. i want to ask her how she’s surviving it because the book is nothing but muddled words that try to force a pretty story down your throat but is so boring, it leaves your mind wandering. the lady is asleep, her finger holding her place between the pages. her finger has moved and now her place is lost. her eyes are closed and her face looks so peaceful even though her head rests on the window and rhythmically bounces as the train pushes it’s way down the tracks. i’m tired. i want to stop thinking about things that are existing in my life and think about the people who rotate on and off at each stop. i want to stop feeling this and feel something else.
he asked me to dinner and i told him i would accept coffee. i debated driving or taking the train but taking the train always wins. i asked him if we could meet later in the evening, around seven or so. he agreed and told me to meet him at a coffee shop. mint plaza. i repeated the location in my head over and over. mint plaza. mint plaza. mint plaza. it sounded funny to me. the train was empty and strangely quiet.
he held my hand across the table on the second floor of a bar. i'm startled when his hand reaches for mine. i want to pull my hand away because i reserve holding hands for people i feel deeply. holding hands is not like kissing. why are you holding my hand? because i feel like it. i distract myself by looking outside. my. hand feels like it’s being held hostage but the facade of intimacy fades my loneliness a little. he's looking at me.
it's drizzling out. it's nice- he interrupts me. i haven't met someone like you in a very, very long time. i believe it, but i don't believe him. he keeps asking me who i am. i don't know how to answer that and i don't really want to. i shrug and laugh. he looks at me with both admiration and what feels like a tinge of repulsion. it probably didn't mean anything but in that moment, it did. i put more trust in the way he looked at me than the words he was saying. i pull my hand away and grip my glass instead. the heat from my hands make the glass sweat quickly. i'm drinking a diet coke.
i want to know everything about you. what is your favorite food? favorite color? what are your favorite films? in my head, i decide that this will be the reason i don’t see him again. i suddenly feel claustrophobic and nervous. i answer two of the three questions. the last one i tell him i have to get back to him.
before i get into the car picking me up, he reminds me i haven’t answered the last question. i lie and tell him i like foreign films the best. it’s not really a lie but it’s an exaggeration. he throws his head back and laughs. i couldn't understand what was so funny. i slid into the car and waved goodbye.
i wonder if all psychiatrists live in such filth. his apartment is tiny but beautiful with old wooden floors and windows that look like sheets of melted sugar rather than glass. they look thin and ancient and i wonder how they keep the wind out. the kitchen has only enough space for one person. he has almost no furniture and his bed is a futon that is laid out on in the middle of the floor. his bed has a fitted sheet with a quilt over it with two thin pillows that look wilted. he has a tiny table in the kitchen area with two folding chairs. there is one bookshelf. there are random papers scattered everywhere; on the floor, on his bookshelf, on his makeshift kitchen table. a thin film of dust covers everything. he has one lamp with a dark lampshade that makes the room glow the color of a tangerine. he makes no apologies for any of this. he ushers me in to the heart of his apartment with pride.
he wants to make me sushi but the avocado he chose is hard as a rock. he asks me if i can slice it up and he hands me something equivalent to a butter knife. i look at it for a minute, not knowing what to do. i ask if he has a cutting board. he thinks for a moment and rummages through drawers and looks into his kitchen cabinet. his kitchen cabinet don't have doors and instead of plates and bowls and cups, there are random papers and other miscellaneous items tucked into each shelf. i'm in awe of his disaster of a kitchen. he has one bowl, two plates and maybe one cup. it takes me a minute to realize the cup is actually an old glass beaker. i wonder what i am really doing here. he hands me a slab of circular wood. use this. i'm still stuck with this butter knife that isn't going to win against this avocado. i don't bother asking if he has a different knife because i know he doesn’t. i start peeling the avocado instead. i take a small bite out of a slice and it’s bitter and disgusting. he has a small bottle of whiskey with maybe half an inch of liquid left. he hands the bottle to me. i shake my head.
no, thank you.
i don't tell him that i believe the last inch of liquid left in any drink or bottle is just mainly saliva and i cannot bring myself to drink it. he shrugs and takes a sip and i wonder why he didn't just drink the whole thing. there was maybe a drop left now. we talk about a variety of things. he tells me about his relationship with his parents. i'm quiet about my relationship with mine. his profession is in the back of my head and although i kind of want him to psychoanalyze me, i don't really want to be psychoanalyzed in that moment. he asks me why i don’t fear being vulnerable. i don’t know how he’s gathered that from knowing me for less than a week. i fumble a response. i'm never articulate in the moment. it's rare for me to say anything genius in real time. he smiles at me a lot. i can't remember if i smile back. he tells me he read something i wrote, how i wanted to take black and white photos of a lover. he tells me maybe one day i can take black and white photos of him. i don't imagine him far into my future so i shrug and say, maybe. what else is there to say?
i fill the silence by telling him the city view from his sugar pane window looks like a scene out of blade runner. i don’t know if he’s ever seen blade runner and i don’t ask. he doesn’t say anything in return and i wonder if he even heard what i had said until he finally he admits he’s never seen it. my comparison looms in the space between us. there is a thin layer of fog blanketing the city night but the lights from the what seems like a million apartment windows surrounding us glisten and twinkle. we are very quiet as we continue to look out his window. he grabs my hand again and even though it feels nice, my instinct is telling me to move my hand away. i don’t. he breaks the silence by telling me something that hurts my feelings.
no one around you recognizes your potential.
july 4 9:45 pm
there is a couple who lives across the street from me and they're sitting on their roof watching the fireworks with a bag of hot cheetos and cans of cheap beer. i think this is what love really is.
we're sitting across from each other at a coffee shop he made me walk five miles to. i'm a little upset and i don’t want to be there. to distract myself from the sweat on my upper lip and how damp my armpits feel from walking across the city, i suddenly pull out my journal to manage my discomfort and he asks if he can borrow a piece of paper. i rip one out and he goes to the barista with pretty freckles and long hair the color of brownie mix and asks to borrow a pen. she gives him one with pink ink. we sit there in silence and i don’t know what i’m supposed to be doing. journalling at a coffee shop with a man i barely know feels so fake that i’m embarrassed of myself. i write one sentence in my journal and i cover what i write with my hand so he doesn't read it. he raises an eyebrow at me and says, i'm not going to read what you write.
i know but still.
he stares at me and i decide i am sick of him staring at me all the time. his gaze is heavy and it feels cloying and meaningless. i ask him what he's looking at, what he's thinking about. i know my tone is sharp. his chin is in his hand and he hesitates a little bit. i’m impatient and i tap my pen against the table. i'm getting antsy and i just want a shower and to change out of my sweater. i want my ugly cotton robe and i want to be in my bed.
we're going to get you into medical school. i laugh in his face. i laugh a deep, guttural laugh. he looks confused. medical school? to be a psychiatrist? like you? but I don't want to be a psychiatrist. I never, ever have. i am quiet and the energy shifts. he grabs my hand across the table. he runs his thumb across the spot of skin between my thumb and my index finger.
not even you recognize your potential.
that suspends between us like a pendulum and for once, he's the one to break our gaze. i pull my hands away and hide them between my thighs and the seat of the chair. i never see him again.
he texts me: i, myself, have to process my experience of you.
it makes me feel powerful but maybe in a bad way. when i get to the train station, i call my mom as i wait to board my train. it's 6:00 pm and it's gloomy and the fog is starting to wrap her way around the city. i wrap my coat around me a little tighter. a man rummages in the trash can next to me and asks me if i have a dollar. i happen to have one and give it to him. he mumbles god bless under his breath. my mom's voice brings a sudden flood of relief.
i sit in silence. i never paid much attention to the sounds the train makes but the low hums, rattles, and the sounds of metal grinding against metal are comforting and mellowing. there is a lady sitting across from me. she has bright blonde hair and it's piled high on top of her head. her eyes are closed. her face looks tense and tired. i wonder if she is feeling the same as me.
a man i once knew wrote to me: i feel full and deeply dimensioned, when i communicate with you. i can let myself feel, let my emotions rampage in a way that rarely happens in other parts of my life. in the light of day, i'm buttoned down, and downright serious. there is an ease with you, a reckless freedom. you are not what i am used to. you're better.
i remember deleting his email and never responding.
his accent is like a warm blanket. it's thick and heady. he tries to kiss me on both cheeks except i don't know which direction we're both moving in. we laugh. i tell him he's too french for me. we're at a wine bar in his neighborhood and we're the youngest ones there. we look around the sea of grey heads. sorry i took us to such an old person place. his accent makes it sound more apologetic. my laugh catches in my throat and i feel champagne bubbles in my stomach even though i'm not drinking champagne.
he spreads cheese on baguette for me. he places it on my plate or in my hands. he gives me the first slice of bread. he gives me the end piece of the baguette. we agree it is the best part of it. i read into this more than I should.
his apartment is beautiful with clean lines and panoramic views of the city. he is on the 18th floor. he complains about the size of the space and tells me his apartment in chicago was twice the size and at least ten times more beautiful. he offers photos as proof. the apartment in chicago and the one in san francisco look almost exactly identical. i look around and i don't understand how he can complain. i wonder if this is a character flaw or it's something simpler: a sign of incompatibility.
it's drizzling out. he asks me if we should take an umbrella. i tell him i think we’ll be okay. by the time we leave for the restaurant, it's almost pouring. he clicks his tongue and shakes his head, almost in disbelief, as if rain doesn’t exist in france. he doesn't laugh. my smile disappears a little. he's quiet and the excitement of walking in the rain doesn't seem so exciting and fun anymore. we walk quickly and finally find an overhang. he grumbles about taking an uber. the city seems just a little less magic.
he gives me a glass of scotch and tells me to try it. i barely take half a sip. it feels like gasoline down my throat. i cough and shake my head. i can barely say, oh god. he laughs and tells me not to drink it so i don't and leave the glass on his coffee table. it's getting late and i'm sober but the scotch loosens him up and he shares painful and intense stories of his last relationship. he's clearly suffering but aren't we all suffering from something? i feel like i need to offer a story to him. to let him know, i know i know i know. i open my mouth and tell a story that i don't tell often, if at all. suffering understands suffering. he listens and his eyes narrow. our stories are not the same. i remember how sharply that stung and how it made me suck in my breath.
it’s late but i want to take the train the back home. or if i need to, i want to take an uber all the way back to the south bay. his comment made me feel humiliated and ugly and i can’t imagine spending the night. i tell him that i am going to go, i tell him it’s getting late. i think i tell him i have things to do in the morning even though that’s a lie. i just want to get out of his beautiful apartment and scour my ears of his beautiful accent telling me that his pain was greater than mine. he looks shocked and he tells me i should stay. he coaxes me to stay and even though i don’t want to, i don’t know how to say no and i think about the cost of the uber and how i can’t really afford it and i think about how exhausting taking the last train out of san francisco is so i push my humiliation aside and get into bed with him. i am in in his bed and i face his bedroom wall made up of floor to ceiling windows and i don’t sleep that night. he sleeps soundly next to me and we do not touch. i watch the night turn into dawn from the 18th floor.
i tell him when he looks at me, he doesn't see a future but sees his past. he tries to argue this but it doesn't matter how hard he tries to tell me i am wrong. i know i am right and this is why he will lose me.
i was reading bluets by maggie nelson and leaning against the glass pane of the museum doing exactly what i told him i would be doing. reading and waiting. i didn’t notice him step in front of me and lean against the glass pane. and when i finally noticed him, i lowered my book and we smiled at each other.
a note i wrote on the train 6/4 12:11 pm:
people always make faces and cringe when they see two people kissing in public. i just saw a couple embracing in between two cars, one was a navy blue camry and the other was a sea foam green prius. their faces were smashed against each other and both their noses seemed to have disappeared. i saw this in a flash as the train raced by. people always whisper and make faces when they see two people quietly kissing over a glass of wine in a dimly lit restaurant on a friday night. people always stare with disdain and i don’t understand it because i love it. feelings should be loud and seen and felt. a public declaration, why not!! but maybe da vinci was right when he said love is something so ugly that the human race would die out if lovers could see what they were doing.
he spotted the moon making her appearance, pointed at it, and looked at me.
would he realize that this simple gesture meant something to me?
he told me, oh you smell nice and i replied with a thank you. he paused then smelled his own wrist and said, actually, it’s me that smells good and he sticks his wrist out under my nose to smell his skin. all i could smell was a faint scent that made me think of burnt toast mixed with smoke. i nod and say, ah. my hair is piled on top of my head and he leans in the curve of my neck and sniffs. i could feel the tip of his nose against my skin. you smell good, too. it was then, at that very moment, that i decided i didn’t like him very much.
about a man i felt warmly towards: we were at the deyoung and i was nervous he didn’t like me much anymore because he kept looking at paintings far away from me but all of a sudden, i felt his arm slide around my waist and he pulled me a little closer to him and we stood like that in front of a very ugly painting without saying a word.
you tell yourself, ‘don’t give so much this time. just a little, just a bit’ but you forget and you love to break your own heart. but after it’s all passed, you marvel at how much more you have left to give. she told you not to give away pieces of your heart so easily because you won’t have anything left to give to someone who matters. you agreed with her even though deep down, you know there is an overflow.
loved this one so much ❤️
This text is what i define as perfection!! Its incredible & easily one of my all time favourite reads on substack!!