Exquisite

Nadia had decided long ago that she had an alter-ego named Avril. Though her parents only knew of the capricious child who drew butterflies all over her bedroom wall, Nadia found that in the dead of the night, when only the crickets sang and the stars shone, the wind carried the adventures of Avril carefully to her imagination. Avril had amazing adventures with goblins, witches and always, always found that perfect prince who swept her off of her feet and rode off to that castle in the distance where they lived happily ever after.

As Nadia grew older and the whirlwind of middle school, high school, and finally college came, twirled, and went, the idea of an Avril sunk farther and farther into the blissful shadows of her childhood memories. Instead of an idea of a perfect life, and prince charming, Nadia began to learn that perfection, though attractive, is unattainable and that prince charmings always come with challenges and complications that may or may not be able to be worked through.

By the time her twentieth birthday came around, Nadia found herself to be cynical and bitter and actually angry with the naïve little girl who believed in the adventures of her alter-ego. She found herself at an impasse and try as she might she could not figure out where she came from or where she was going. And as a result, Nadia found herself more angry more often and her friends found ways to ignore her or spend their time elsewhere. Her parents denounced her as selfish and wanted her to take control of her life. And Nadia herself? She wished that ostriches knew the secrets of the world and that she could be one of those people who knew exactly what they wanted out of life.

The day after her birthday, she found herself on the main drag of her college town, wrapped in a large black scarf, hugging herself as a reaction against the wind. Little drops of rain hit her face, her hair, and autumn leaves found their way into her collar. Instead of stopping in any one of the number of little cafes that literally littered the side of the street, she walked and walked and walked until she found herself in the downtown part of the city (her college was in the suburbs). Surrounded by strangers, Nadia had never felt more at home. She identified with the lonely independence of downtown life, the casual, meaningless encounters.

Which were the only types of encounters she now had in her life. The last encounter she had was the night before, in her room, with an old friend. They had agreed to go to a movie but he stood her up. Out of sheer boredom, she agreed to go to a party. Without even realizing it, she was handed a beer, and soon afterwards introduced to a graduate student wearing a beret. He asked her to dance and clumsily lead her to the make-shift dance floor where he executed the proper steps of the meringue without feeling or rhythm. He began to whisper in her ear about the differences of Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin and she wondered whether anyone thought about communism anymore. He then went on to the evils of Stalin as opposed to Hitler and Nadia began to feel that a meringue could indeed be morbid. She tried to find a way to extricate herself from this man without seeming rude but her friend was flirting with a nice looking boy with curly hair and she reminded herself that she knew no one else.

After the party ended, Nadia found herself following her friend to the lobby of the building with a few other people. Balanced precariously on chairs, and a coffee table, they began to talk. She sat next to a cute boy, who made her laugh with his antics. And because he made her laugh he became even more attractive in her eyes. But Nadia, like most people, was afraid of revealing too much of herself. Almost unconsciously, she raised her guard, allowing herself to laugh and answer prettily but no more. Under no circumstances, unless he made the first move, was she going to allow herself to show him she found him attractive. She was flattered when he seemed unhappy that she had to leave, but disappointed when he did not ask for her number. And in the same moment, she realized there was nothing to be disappointed over—she had given her number to countless drunken boys only to be let down when they didn’t call the next day.

As she walked back with her friend, she received a phone call from her movie date. The party hadn’t relieved any of the angsty, restless feelings, and she assented when he asked her if he could come up to her room. She waited for him in the lobby, and realized that he was drunk when he came over and hugged her. Still, she led him up the stairs, and allowed him to press her against her door as she fumbled for her keys.

Efficiently. That’s how she cleaned her bed. There was talk of watching the movie. He quickly told her that she obviously didn’t want to watch a movie. She realized he was talking about himself as well. She allowed him to manipulate her onto her bed, to kiss her, and to awkwardly, drunkenly, caress her.
Hours later, she laid there, one shapely leg entwined with his, white on the navy cotton sheets. His head lay between the two cups of her black bra and he slept. Absentmindedly, she caressed his hair in little circles, then triangles and spirals. He snored, faintly.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside and created shadows on the wall. She watched as the leaves blew in the calm night breeze, her thoughts following the trail of the wind as it passed. Strangely, she felt no true emotion. The man lying next to her could have been anyone—from a very old friend to a stranger. It didn’t seem to matter. The deed had been done, the need satisfied. There existed a feeling of numbness within her that she found foreign and malignant. In a very distant fashion, she worried where her feeling hid and why she could detach herself from reality so easily, but she dismissed the anxiety with a blink of her eye and went on absentmindedly stroking his hair.

She had allowed him upstairs on a whim~ not thinking in any tense but the present. It was almost as though she had allowed him into her life one too many times and now could no longer allow him to influence her in any fashion.

She knew he was a manipulative and insensitive gentleman~ an oxymoron of sorts. Their attraction was entirely based on their shared darkness—a darkness of mind, a darkness of spirit and soul. It was a twisted sort of passion that left them both tense and frustrated, until their ritual began again…and again and again.

And now, as Nadia found herself walking amongst businessmen and tourists, all slouching against the rain, she allowed herself not to think and just be a part of the city she was in. Deep down, she knew the last night was the last night she’d allow that particular friend to stay the night. There had been talk: talk of dating, talk of not dating. Talk of differences, in religion, in life style, in personality. And there was no compromise between two stubborn people. There could only exist this wounding tension.

She thought back to their last encounter. He called her flaky, unable to decide anything. She told him he had put too much emphasis on her lack of love for organized religion. He declared that she loved him. She laughed at the thought. He put his leg in-between hers and slowly undid her buttoned shirt. And she believed him when his kisses delivered a promise of decision.

It became a relationship by the end of the month. But not with the man she had slept with the night of the moonlight and leaves and decisive kisses. It became a relationship between her and the man she met on the bus on the way to the city. It was the shortest ride she had ever been on and the most profound. When he asked her out on the street corner, next to the saxophone player, there had been no hesitation before her breathless “Yes.” And the cocky kiss he planted on her willing lips had solidified a mutual wish to love and be loved.

His name was Paul and like a whirlwind, he came into her life and immediately became the center of attention. She lied to herself, told herself that she was in complete control, and all the while, she was falling. Falling harder and more beautifully than she had ever done before. And it felt like life had suddenly become heaven and for once, she just let herself go and found that the harder she fell, the better it felt.

There were the long, ridiculous conversations that only made sense to them. On lookers smiled understandingly as they held hands in the line for coffee, finishing each other’s orders, then giggling at themselves, not noticing the good-natured smiles of old women and jealous looks of single girls.

Then, there came the kisses…and the loving that came after that. Intoxicating passion, complete and utter concentration and purity. The addictive feeling of body touching body, treating the other to a feeling so exquisite that it should have more consequences than it does.

And just like that, Nadia began to feel again. She fell in love.

*

The thing about goodbyes is that there is always a sense of finality in them: whether it signifies the end of an evening, the end of an era, the end of a relationship. Seeing Paul for the last time, as he stood with his ticket in hand and jacket over his arm looking at her with eyes filled with an equal mixture of love, pain and the beginning of tears in the corners, she felt a pang somewhere between her stomach and her heart. She wanted to reach out to him, to hug him, to tell him it was all a huge mistake; all things that she should have said long before it came to this. Instead, she watched through blurry eyes as he mouthed the words “I’m sorry” and bit her lip to stop the tears from falling. Paul put his hand to his chin, the gesture that she recognized as worry, and walked over to her.

“I want to be your friend,” he told her, whispering into her ear. Nadia felt a tear travel down from the corner of her eye, down her cheekbone, to the dimple next to her lips. He put his arms around her and rocked on his feet. Though she still felt secure and safe in his arms there was a twinge of bittersweet depression that entered her brain in the knowledge that this was the last time he’d be hugging her like this.

“Don’t cry darling,” he said and she noticed that his voice had choked up. She put her hand on the nape of his neck and stroked it, out of habit. Then she realized what she was doing and hastily pulled away.
“Why?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” The frustration came out of her in bitterness.
“I know.”
“I mean, it’s fair that you feel that way…” her voice drifted off into a whisper.
“No, it’s not fair. It’s not fair to you.” His mouth set itself into a harsh line. She stepped away from him.
“Then why? Why?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

And he walked away. He looked over his shoulder just once, with a look of love and pain that brought her back to the realization that the love she felt for him was something out of the ordinary and that there was some cosmic irony in the fact that he was walking away from her and not towards her. She stared after the back of his head, saw the place where he had popped a whitehead, noticed his swagger and felt her heart break in two. All the while, life moved on around her and she stayed rooted to this spot in the airport.

There’s this poster, a photograph in black and white, of a goodbye kiss, circa 1944 in Central Station in New York. The couple is embracing as though it is their last kiss; the passion between them is almost tangible. He may be leaving for war, she may be leaving to visit her family, whatever the reason for their parting, the finality of this situation is filled with hope. Each is focused on the other, there is a romantic purity to their connection, and the popped leg adds a taste of class. For that one moment in time everything is trapped in the connection between them.

Nadia had bought this poster one rainy day on a whim, taken by the classy passion evoked by the elegant forties dressing and the simplistic romance depicted in the picture. Every day, it reminded her that no matter the outcome, it was the moments in any relationship that made it important, that made the memories, that made it poignant.

She wished fervently for two things after Paul had left her. One, she wanted to hate him. More than anything, she knew it would be much easier if she could just hate his guts and see him as the asshole that dumped her. But she loved and respected him too much to smear the memories with bitterness. She also wished that he would call her and tell her it was all a mistake, that he had made the wrong decision, that he still loved her and wanted to have her back into his life. Caught between two worlds, all she could feel was frustration and she drove herself crazy. She could not bring herself to accept the fact that he had walked out of her life. She could not understand how he could still love her yet leave her. And how she wished for conversation, kisses in on street corners, and secrets over late night coffee. The way he walked, the way he argued with her, the tone of voice he used when he wanted to make her feel better. All the memories swirled around her head. They gave her no peace.

Earlier, before the deluge, had been the frustration. The almost attractive frustration of a challenge in a relationship. A frustration that infused her with love and irritation, a quality that was completely irresistible. When with Paul, Nadia felt happiness, a sense of peace. A love and warmth. She loved to lie in his arms, or lie with him in her arms. Talking was optional; but the feeling of holding and being held infused her with a serenity that she could not find anywhere else. When away from him, when he did not call on time, when his conversations were curt and short, she wished she could try harder, shriek, shout, get his attention, to understand. And in this frustration, she felt illogically alive.

It was the first breakup for Nadia in which both parties were hurt, in which both people’s emotions had gotten the better of them and the first one that had made no sense. She saw the world in a matter of black and white when it came to love. In her life it was simple: she loved Paul, therefore she wanted him in her life no matter what. What Nadia had not realized, and only the barista at the coffee stand had, was that her face had been a mirror of his.