THE HOST AND THE HABIT

What Lacy remembered most were the unanswered calls and texts religiously sent once every day to avoid coming off as ‘thirsty’. He also recollected her gently touching his waist randomly in the midst of his mates during any outdoor events simply to get his attention. He enjoyed every bit of her shenanigans, but what he didn't seem to enjoy so much was that all she ever did was that. Feathery touch in public and private spaces to make him come alive a bit, and conversations about everything but how he really felt about her. She was going to come around, he told himself. No one really did the things she did with her eyes, mouth, and hands if they didn't feel a certain way towards the other person. Perhaps, she wanted to make the first move, like Prisca, his best friend’s formally sworn enemy, now girlfriend. But even then, the thought felt ludicrous. If he had to solicit her physical appearance time and time again until the thought of letting her go, no matter how painful, seemed relieving, then, maybe, he was indeed being delusional about her amore for him.

They were seated on a dusty floor the day he came to the conclusion that he was going to leave her for the sake of his sanity. The building stank of ancient wares, timbers, and rust, but he still hoped she’d kiss him. He would have made the first move, but he didn’t want to come off as too… strong, needy, too forceful. With her, he was careful. Not because she scared him shitless, but because she mostly left him feeling helpless, without a clue what to do, so he moved with circumspection until she approved of a certain action. In the building, when she’d brought her face closer to his to drink his scent, he’d hoped she would kiss him then too, but she hadn’t, and for every time he thought in the direction of affection, he would awfully meet disappointment. 

An empty bottle of Fanta laid beside her while an uncorked, half-empty bottle of Sprite stood in between his thighs. The heat within the building was treacherous, but Lacy worried less about that—he worried less about anything that didn't have to do with her. She was going to leave him one day and he knew it, something within him whispered that every single time he thought of a future with her and since he couldn't stomach the thought of her absence, he was sure as hell he wouldn't be able to stomach the reality of it. It was his first time feeling this intensity for someone, so he tried not to blame himself too much for not knowing what to do with it except run. 

They were to clean the building courtesy of the roles given to them for community service which happened almost every weekend. Instead, just like an organized ceremony before the departure of a loved one, they’d sat there, feet tucked beneath each thigh, giggling, and sharing sticks of fried meat, small chops, and anecdotes, forgetting their chores. Ironic how before the laughter came a sequence of queries and arguments about her ghost moves, but none of it really mattered anymore as soon as he remembered he was leaving first, leaving their past for the present so he could enjoy whatever fleeting pleasure he could derive from her presence. 

She caressed his bare chin, pulling at invisible items, until he searched her eyes looking for answers to unspoken questions. Ha! Delusion was a beautiful thing! He wished the universe had endowed him with such mercy. He would have pulled his last strings, kissed her feet willingly, and ended his misery. To hell with the consequences! Instead, that day had ended with both of them too weary to say a proper goodbye, too exhausted to speak after they’d actually gotten into a huge fight about her constantly going MIA, only to reappear and act like everything was normal between them. Act like she didn't have him tossing and turning in bed each night, eyes glued to his phone, wondering when she was going to call or text him. Like she didn't have him haranguing in dissatisfaction and distress, sighing and cussing when each call that came through wasn't from her. He’d taken his phone off DND for her, only to find out a couple of days later that she'd relocated to Japan without telling him. Fuck the universe! She could be cruel sometimes, you know. 

Now, he bathes in soft, bruised, sodium lights at a cafe where he sits watching the TV situated several seats away from him. He can hear the speaker accurately, this woman who sits in murky pants, a blue tuxedo, and a hat from the 80’s, the silence from the room is an enabler. She looks typically calm and less… irritated. He tries on half a smile but ends up gulping a large amount of saliva instead. He hadn’t seen her in almost a decade, but as soon as his eyes met hers, time seemed to have shortened. She looks different, but it feels like he has always known her difference, been a part of it, even. The speaker, the one in blue tuxedo, is speaking laboriously about a boy, so he looks up from the swirling patterns on his mug to focus better. Her eyes appear distant with each word, “The boy she is talking about must have really caused her great pain,” he thinks. For a moment, he wishes he can ease some of her discomfort, but then again, he pauses at the ridiculousness and density of this mind. 

He tries to relive the last time he saw her, the sound of their heels hurrying down cobblestones is all that can echo in his head. Could things have been different? If they hadn't hesitated for a minute and inter-linked fingers, would he have bought more time and a different outcome? Where would they have been at that moment? Would she have rejected him if he came on ’too strong’? If she did, what would he have done? “That’d probably have been worse,” he says to himself. Things were better this way; she in a foreign country talking about a strange boy whom he'd probably never met; and him in the same town that’d always hold firm memories of both of them, sipping steaming coffee in a cafe, watching her from the screen of a large TV in the early hours of a mundane evening.

No doubt he has built quite the life for himself: a career, kids, a nearly divorced wife, and a community that totally adores him; but everything he's built feels like the semblance of happiness, never truly happiness itself. He hated how his heart leaped in hopes when he saw her again, but most importantly, he despised how they crashed in disappointment when he was mentally reminded of his roles as a father and husband, roles he couldn't just up and abandon. Her voice, ever so steady, trembles as she keeps pouring her heart out. “I assembled thick bricks and convinced myself vulnerability was weakness. When he walked out that day, something snapped and I felt a part of me wander. He's the only one I've ever truly loved and the only one I’ve ever truly lost…” As she continues to speak, describing the events of the day her heart broke, a single tear rolls down Lacy’s cheek as he realizes she’s been talking about him the entire time. How silly of him to not have known she wanted to be with him, and how callous of him to have mistaken her inability to articulate her deepest emotions for nonchalance. 

The screen fades into an advert and Lacy discovers he has lost track of time. All he can think about are the reverberating words, “He’s the only one…” ‘Is’. The present. In this moment, he yearns, a deep ache which feels unbearable, even for a man his size. He yearns for a love which had been his, a love which he’d given up on so freely, abandoned so unwittingly when all he had to do was nurture it into sprout. He loved her, he realized. Still does. But this was their curse; they both were to remain lost in the silence and pain of what would always remain unsaid. 

By Precious Nelson