I’m finishing my third wine; I tilt the glass at you each time I make a point, flirting over my nervousness, drinking it away. Twice now, we have touched. Fingers taping on arm to emphasise, a gentle shoulder push at something controversial. Easy, inconsequential, like the little stories we are trading. It feels good. Natural. But I am nervous all the same. There is more than distance between us, after-all.
Two years. I cannot decide if it is a lifetime, or yesterday. I built up those days, used every single minute and hour to create distance between us. One day placed on top of another until I had a fortress of time to hide behind. It was the only way I knew to do it.
You must do the thing you think you cannot do.
It was like losing the sun. I spent weeks, months, fumbling through the dark of your absence, jumping at shadows, and sleeping with my eyes wide open. Barricade building, until I could no longer remember the glow, how we used to power this city.
Until, enough days had passed, and a whole new life grew up out of the dark.
Some of it I share with you now. I want to tell you, dance my life in front of you, show the accumulation of these two years. But there are also parts I want to protect, things you don’t deserve to hear. You are carefully choosing your own sharing tonight. There is nothing unusual in that, but you have not thought of what I already know, of the ways you still come up from time to time.
I am now fully aware of what you won’t say.
A lot has changed.
Do you say it? Do I say it? Is it a bitter offering, or lament? Your hand goes to my knee, and suddenly I am blazing. Suddenly, nothing has changed at all.
Eidyia’s note: Two former lovers meeting again after years apart. What changes? What doesn’t? Does time really heal everything, or do we merely learn to pause certain feelings, certain desires – and it’s all just there, waiting. Does what we resist, only persist?
All this time – a little writing exercise to see …