Crying shame

Sunday

I am standing at the top of the stairs that wind down to the river's edge. Watching the people eating and drinking in the bars, walking through the evening, doing their things. Living their lives. I am smoking. 

I look from person to person. Now and then catch a figure that might be her. Scrutinise. Realise with relief that it is not her. But also disappointment. I have been back here for three weeks now. A part of me wants to run into her. Force her to know that I am still around. That consequences of selfishness are real. That I am real. That our two years together were real. Cannot be talked out of existence, for convenience sake. 

Finish the second cigarette. Time to head to the bar, to meet the friend of a friend. I cross the road, turn a corner and - unbelievable. Alessia, right in front of me, coming the other way. The surprise in her eyes too. She is shorter than I remember. It's only been three months. How much has already been lost, distorted, by the obsessive mind? 

Well, this is strange, I say. Immediately regret the light tone. She is smiling with embarrassment. Is it embarrassment? She is nervous, looking away, not making eye contact. 

How are you doing, she asks. 

What a question. 

I look at her, this time eye contact, and say nothing. Instead I pull a face that conveys: how the hell do you think?

Okay, yeah, she says, looking away. Trying to think of something to say next. Are you going to the concert? she asks, pointing to some riverside venue. 

I leave a long pause. Just taking in the words. Taking in the situation that does not feel real. 

No, I reply. I'm meeting a friend for a drink. 

Silence. She has filters in her hand, is looking at them. She takes one and is trying to roll a cigarette, but it's not real. It's nervousness, or awkwardness. I guess she would rather be anywhere but here. 

Still silence. 

Well, I say, and point to the direction I'd been walking. And before I can add words like 'I should go' she has already said 'yeah' and makes a move in her, opposite, direction. Enjoy your concert, I say. 

Then we walk away from each other. 

And that is it. All of her talk of love, of one day starting a family, of feeling a part of her was missing when we were apart. All of our intimacy, naked in each other's arms, side by side, driving across all those cities and country roads. Her love notes, that she left all around my flat just months ago, that I kept finding for weeks after she left. All the private jokes, all the silly video calls, all the morning greetings and the nighttime confessions. It all led here, to such strange distance.

Why did I tell her to enjoy her concert. Why didn't I tell her exactly how I am doing. Why didn't I demand to know the answers. Why did you end things, so suddenly, out of the blue? Why did you become so suddenly cold and distant? Why won't you give me a single straightforward answer? Why don't you love me anymore? How could you say you still do, and still abandon us? Abandon me? 

I meet the friend of the friend. She doesn't drink. I go through my wine quickly. Polite conversation. Try to keep focused on the polite conversation. Afraid of the deep, dark hole that I will fall into once this is over. 

Walk home, numb. Dumb. Crushed. Furious. I have run out of appeals. I have run out of prayers. I have run out of friends. Second and third chances. I return home in silence, to silence. 

So that's it then. So this is it. 


Thursday 

It rains non-stop through the day. It's raining still in the evening, as I find myself at a table, more drinks with strangers. More small talk. Everyone drinks exactly one drink, then away in our various and different directions. 

My direction takes me to the main road, where I intend to catch a tram. The tram Alessia and I used to take, just a few months back. But I see the tram pulling away before I reach the other side of the track. Fuck, I say too loudly, the nonnas beside me turning their heads. 

I wait in the damp dark, smoking, one cig after another. Eventually it comes around again. Like everything seems to. The doors clatter shut with such violence. I struggle to keep balance on the wet, wooden floor. I get off six stops later. Exactly and precisely a stone's throw from Alessia's flat, which cruelly and incidentally happens to be a few streets away from my place. I give it the middle finger. 

My little flat is cold. The lamp on, left on by design, in the hope it would make returning alone somehow less lonely. I regard the fridge with such disdain. The stupid food to go into my stupid stomach to keep me going in my stupid so-called life.  I close it. Choose instead to fall on to the bed. 

Tears rise, but as usual they don't want to commit, don't want to go all the way. But I've got no other moves. I've got no call to make, no voice waiting on a line. No almighty god, looking down from the sky, ready for my penitence. I just have this room, and the keys that open and close, and a fridge full of food to feed to an empty stomach. None of these things are going to help. None of these things are going to take away the pain, or make sense of it, or give me an audience with Alessia, or give me the thoughts and rationale of Alessia. None of this can help. None of this. 

I put on music. The saddest, most stirring I can find. And I have so much of that. The damp eyes, they do give it up. Tears swell and begin to fall. And now I crease. Now my mouth opens, a frown, a desperate baby sound. A shaking and a shuddering of the chest. A throaty gulp of air. The tears gather pace. Run now down my face. All this sadness. This loneliness. This pain. Good. Keep it coming. 

I try to push it all out, like vomit after too much booze. If I can get it all out, the burden will be lighter. The world a little brighter. 

I cry for a few minutes, then the well dries up. And everything remains the same.