Return of the Slack

Astonishment of the day:


Anderson Cooper is gay? And a member of the Vanderbilt family? I'm seriously behind on my facts. Whatever, I still have a massive crush on the guy. Lex has this theory that I like old men (as opposed to my theory that I like oldER) men. But seriously, AC is only 40-ish and besides, how sexy is his snow fox look? Purr....

On with today's REAL post....

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Is it possible that when life savagely thwarts one relationship, it sometimes compensates by allowing you glorious vindication in another? Kind of like an emotional diet, where you substitute giving up points in one arena with indulgences in a separate one? Today it feels like both of those things are true.

When we are hurt by those we love and the relationship breaks beyond repair, most of us secretly hope for the day when the person who wronged us will come crawling back, begging for a second chance. This desire is, more often than not, motivated mainly by an almost undeniable need both for closure and also for the knowledge that we made our best effort possible to keep the relationship in a working state. If the person who wounded us comes back for another chance, it displaces much of the blame for the relationship's demise from our shoulders onto some deficiency in the other party, in timing, or in life as it was then. It is, in effect, a final chapter in a very necessary catharsis that will otherwise take months of self-analysis, self-abasement, and regret to overcome.

I was never lucky in this regard - exes never came crawling back, begging for another go at it. I either had massive blowouts with the needy/emotionally abusive basket cases I unfortunately attracted (Ryan), or else I hurt the guy so badly by breaking up with him that he never wanted to talk to me again. And of course then there's Raf....well.....there's Raf. The only middle ground was the men I flirted with but with whom I was never in a relationship - these men tended to return time and time again for their fix of borderline romance, although most of them have since evolved into very platonic male friends.

[On a separate note, why is it so hard for me to make proper friends with women? I am somehow deficient in this arena and try very hard not to be, but to no avail. As a result I'm usually the woman who blossoms into a socialite when surrounded by men at a party but clutches her drink awkwardly as her foot repeatedly finds its way into her mouth when amongst a group of women. Argh!]

But now, as my birthday approaches (eek!) it seems that relationship karma is finally making its overdue house call - its delay probably exacerbated by the distance it had to travel from Raf's corner of the globe all the way to mine. In a weird twist of fate, I am being sent overseas for work and will be staying in the same city as a childhood friend with whom I have a complicated history (Ah, you thought perhaps there was only one? You were wrong, my dears. Very wrong).


Flashback:

Hayden is just your run-of-the-mill gorgeous, European, dark-haired/light-eyed, six foot six kind of guy. He's also single at the moment. We've known each other since we built tree forts in our yards way back in the day. Our parents were good friends, so we spent a lot of time being bored at dinner parties and coming up with way to entertain ourselves at the kids' table. (Wet napkin throwing contest? Noodle fight? So many options...)

Eventually my family moved away from our old stomping grounds and I would only see Hayden once every couple of years. When we were 14, our families went on a joint trip along the East Coast and explored all the seafood and ocean-side mansions it had to offer. Hayden was chubby and had large, round glasses just like his father, and I was a skinny 2x4 who desperately wanted to have boobs like every other girl in my grade. We held hands under the tables at restaurants that summer, and it was the first time a boy had ever held my hand like that. But alas, our families parted ways after our vacation and he headed back to his side of the pond.

Many years later (but before I met Marco) I was about to embark on a backpacking trip with my brother when my parents suggested we stop by and see Hayden's family. I balked immediately. His mother had died a few years previously when he was 16, and he had (quite understandably) become a very dark, brooding, weird guy. I never felt comfortable talking to him after the fact, as he seemed to resent me both for still having a mom and also for not being able to attend the overseas funeral. At the time I wasn't equipped to deal with this irrationality, and so our friendship gradually faded.

This time, however, my parents weren't giving me a choice. Like it or not, we were going out to dinner with Hayden, his father, and his sister. Suddenly I felt nervous. Now equipped with the body measurements I sought after at 14, I felt almost too self-aware of my own sexuality. What would it be like to see him again? Would he still resent me? Would we be able to be playful and upbeat like we used to be? Would he want to be my friend again? I fretted over 15 different shirts and finally picked an olive green wrap-around that showed just enough but was still demure. As I stood on the cobble-stone street, unstable in my stilettos, in front of the incredible 5-story city residence his mother had decorated before she died, I silently hoped for them not to be home.

As soon as the brass clinker had hit the door, it swung open. Hayden's father welcomed us with his infectious laughter and his familiar warmth before we headed out to the latest über-trendy eatery the city had to offer. Hayden was running late and would be joining us shortly. His sister Alicia was already present. As we noshed on bits of over-stylized cuisine, I decided to dash to the washroom before Hayden got there. Hurriedly eyeing the front door, I tip-toed across the slippery slate floor (which, for any of you who regularly wear stilettos, is no mean feat in 4-inchers) and almost mowed down our waiter. As I was coming out of the bathroom, a cute guy in a tight black shirt gave me a wry smile. I returned his glance, my confidence buoyed by his attention, but he wouldn't stop looking at me. In fact, he was following me to my table. Hayden had surely grown into his own. As we said our hellos by means of kisses on the cheek, I felt my face flush with embarrassment. All this time I had been worrying about seeing him, and then I hadn't even recognized him!

As the evening drew to a close, I felt relieved. We had spent most of dinner talking about Hayden's recent trip to Thailand, and when I tentatively teased him about the quite feminine silver arm cuff he sported as a souvenir, he batted at me about my "American-looking" clothes in return. I felt comfortable again, and since we had a few days left before our trip, my brother and I decided to stay with Hayden and Alicia in the city when our parents returned to the United States.

After a few rowdy nights of clubbing, my brother and Alicia decided to go see their respective friends for an evening. Hayden and I walked to a laid back bar and sat down for a beer. After laughing and drinking for about an hour I confessed my initial apprehensions, and he told me that he regretted being such a jerk over the last few years. Suddenly all of my own regrets came pouring out of me, and I teared up when I apologized for not being able to attend his mother's funeral. He looked at me with the most tenderness I'd ever seen in his face and said: "Babe, I love you. I've loved you since we were 4. You're my best girl - you know that. My mother loved you. We all do. Don't worry so much."

Later, as we walked home a little tipsy, he slung his arm around my neck and nuzzled the top of my head. As I climbed the steps to the 5th floor guest bedroom and brushed my teeth that night I felt like I had found my old friend again. Heady from the alcohol and filled with nostalgia, I tiptoed back down the stairs and knocked on Hayden's door. "I just want you to know I'm glad that mfhhfhhdddghgh" .... my words faded into nothing as he pulled me in and kissed me.

During the subsequent backpacking trip with my brother, I kept getting text messages from Hayden: "I miss you.....my sweatshirt still smells like you.....let me know when you're back in the country....I love you.....I'm so glad we're friends again......etc."

Since I was about to embark on my year and a half studying abroad, I wouldn't have the chance to be back in the country until halfway through my first semester. Shortly after my 20th birthday I sent him a text message: "I'm back for a few days. Let me know if you want to get a cup of coffee." No reply - which was weird, since I was staying with his dad for duration of my visit. I never heard from him. As I was leaving for the airport I told Alicia I felt sad that he hadn't written back.

SaN: *sigh* Half the time I seriously don't understand what's going on in his twisted brain.
Alicia: It's too hard for him to see you. He misses you all the time and can't handle the idea that you're so far away. I think he has a girlfriend now and didn't want to upset you.
SaN: Seriously? When did this happen?
Alicia: I don't know, he probably met her at some party. Look, she'll last maybe 2 months. We both know you'll be my sister-in-law in 10 years' time. That's what mom would have wanted, and that's what we all want, including him. Just let him be a stupid boy. He'll grow out of it.

I felt confused. What was the point of re-establishing emotional intimacy if he was afraid to be without me? He should have just kept it superficial in that case. It began to dawn on me that Hayden and I still weren't on the same emotional plane. Oh well. It had been 2 years since Ryan and I exploded into oblivion and I'd had my share of ups and downs. I wasn't going to let anyone ruin my time abroad. With this in mind, I headed to the Mediterranean for 6 months, then Northern Europe for another 6. When I finally returned to the US, Marco and I had been dating for almost 8 months.

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So, that's the last I had heard of Hayden. When I found out that I would be going to Europe for work for a week or so and would be in his city, I called his dad to see if I could stay at their place. No luck (he doesn't check voicemail or email - weird, I know). Apparently he had been super busy at work and hadn't seen my note that I was coming by in about a week. With no resource left except for Hayden's cell number, I dialed hesitantly but tried to sound confident.

Hayden: Hello? Hello?
SaN: Hayden? You there?
Hayden: Hello? Yeah, hey.
SaN: Hey, it's SaN - you got a minute real quick?
Hayden: Not really, but go ahead.
SaN: I'm in the city for a couple of days in about a week. Think I could crash at your dad's place?
Hayden: Shouldn't be a problem. Try him on his work number.
SaN: Ok will do, sorry to disturb
Hayden: Yeah, talk to you then. Bye.

I hung up feeling like crap. Why did he have to be so grouchy? He hadn't talked to me in well over 3 years - couldn't he at least take a minute to catch up? Now he was just being a regular old narky asshat.

While I was at Marco's this weekend I got a text message:

Dear SaN
Sorry for my kind of weird and short and not fun conversation, but I was right in the middle of moving into my new apartment. I live alone now, so if it doesn't work out with my dad's place you can always sleep here. Either way we're going to go do something fun. I do hope to see you/talk to you like we used to soon.

Now I have a question, readers: WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT LAST LINE MEAN? Please, somebody de-mystify the male mind for me. Is he gunning for a hookup? Is he being platonic? Is he just a bad grammarian? What does "see you like I used to" mean? Tipsy and in heat? Unnghhh.

Other than the aforementioned confusion, I feel a little spot of weirdness blooming in my stomach. Obviously nothing will happen because my love life already has an incumbent, but I'm not quite sure how to act around Hayden now.

The only thing I can assert with confidence is that his ship has most definitely sailed. He had his chance and blew it. We may have been great for each other, but in the end the timing didn't work out. You may think it's trivial, but I think it's a big part of whether or not people should get together. You can't sit around your whole life waiting for another person to grow into the person you want them to be. Then you end up with someone like, well, you know...

And thus sweet vindication makes its world tour stop in my backyard. I may never get the chance to see Raf come back, but I sure as hell feel good knowing that Hayden has regrets. Does that make me evil?

I think it makes me human.

This Weather's Bringing It All Back Again

How much do people really change? When my friends run out of patience with the Raf situation (bless their hearts), they inevitably turn to the phrase "people change" as a conclusion, and understandably so. I find myself asking the same questions over and over again - so much so that my poor roommate Lex has memorized the answers in spite of his most valiant efforts to constantly redeploy his empathy.

SaN: Do you think he'll ever write me again?
Lex: Maybe. Eventually.
SaN: Do you think he hates me?
Lex: No. I think he's afraid of the impact you have on his life.
SaN: How can he do this? How can almost a decade of friendship not matter to him?
Lex: It does matter to him. He's just trying to get by in his own world and you were collateral damage. He had to make a choice.

When we are faced with a situation in which another human being inexplicably betrays the trust created by a close bond, we are left feeling blindsided - wondering how we couldn't see such a thing coming. As blissfully uncomplicated as men can sometimes be, Raf's complexity has baffled me from day one.

I suppose the irony of this blasted situation is that for the longest time, it was Raf who had the stronger feelings for me as opposed to vice versa. Now, in my twenties, I am left feeling like I ran out of time to reciprocate and as a result am hemorrhaging my emotions into the vacuum left by his departure. I berate myself often:

- Did I not take his feelings seriously enough?
- Was I not expressive enough with my feelings?
- Was I so vain that I thought his adoration would last forever?
- Did I ever really think that we could make it work, or did I just like the attention?
- Did I lead him on?
- Did I do enough to let him know he was important to me?
- Did I drive him toward a placeholder instead of giving him the freedom to find someone he really loves? (More on this later)

There's a great song called Hold You Down by a band named JUMP. Their discovery is about the only good thing my psychotic ex Ryan ever contributed to my life. That, and the ability to definitively tell the assholes from the good guys for the rest of eternity.

The lyrics discuss the effects of paradigm shift (seeing the same issue from a different perspective).

Was I watching over you?
Or watching you fall apart?
Did I lend a hand to hold you down?
Or just a hand to hold?
Did I pull the wool over your eyes?
Or keep you from the cold?
In every look upon your face
There was an element of grace
Did I read between the lines?
Or erase...?

The snippet above pretty much describes the constant state of questioning in which I find myself - did I do good or evil in my friendship with Raf? Did I damage him with uncertainty? Did he finally just decide to cut his losses and exit with what dignity he had left?

Throughout our friendship I always had long-term boyfriends while Raf bounced around from one 3-month stint to the next. I would consistently get emails that extolled the virtues of one girl only to receive a follow-up declaring that it was over. He was restless, nomadic, and victim to a self-described incompleteness. This sense of purposelessness, coupled with his family's reticence to accept his desired vocation, made for quite the quarter-life crisis as we headed into the new millennium, now firmly bound to each other by unwavering loyalty and implicit understanding.

Photography was Raf's escape from the world's negativity. It was the one place where he could feel at peace and, most importantly, be good at something. To this day I am so proud and grateful to have been part of the force that compelled this kind of talent to firmly anchor his proverbial stake in the ground and tell his father he was going to follow his passion. (See below)

Back in the day we used to talk about the kind of photographic subjects Raf would pursue if given the chance. His answer was always the same: people. Ironically, what he has ended up specializing in is landscape photography. Why is this ironic, you say...?

...time for another Flashback.

It's a good thing Raf has shaved his head this year, or he wouldn't be able to strap on the helmet he's just been handed. I almost didn't recognize him coming down the long gravel driveway a week ago and might have walked clear past him had he not called my name from 50 feet away and started running toward me the instant my Keds-clad feet had hit the dirt.

In the meantime, we're being informed of the safety procedures of whitewater rafting. As I'm trying to get Raf's attention from across the gazebo, he motions sternly for me to pay attention to the woman explaining what to do in the event of a man-overboard situation. "On your back, feet up and pointed downstream, grab the closest possible oar, make sure you get pulled into the raft on your stomach, not your back. DO NOT STAND UP IN THE CURRENT." Check, check, check. Got it.

We are dismissed, and I strap myself into a damp life jacket. This is going to be awesome. I clamber into an eight-person inflatable raft with Raf at the helm. As we make our way down the first couple of Class II rapids I feel an icy splash at my back. I look behind me to see Raf holding the neon orange bail bucket and sporting an I-dare-you-to-retaliate grin. I glower at him and vow revenge. My opportunity strikes quickly - at the next eddy I "accidentally" over-paddle and catch him fully in the face with my backsplash. Excellent! We continue down the river, laughing and dousing each other in the freezing water, which is a welcome repast from the afternoon heat. The sun catches Raf's eyes and they prism into an array of hidden colors. He flashes me a smile that hangs in the space between mischief and tenderness.

Suddenly his face turns to horror as I'm flying through the air. I crash into the water and my world goes into slow motion.

My mouth is full of water. My body feels paralyzed. Where am I? My head goes under but the life jacket buoys me back up to the surface of the raging water. My limbs are numb from the cold. I am floating above myself in third person, compelling myself to swim. "Closest oar...downstream..." Adrenaline ordered by my brain finally reaches my body and my feet shoot up out of the water. Do not stand up, SaN, or the current will take you down and drown you. I spot the yellow raft and starting swimming for what seems like miles. An oar touches my fingertips. Raf. I latch on and let him pull me toward the raft. Then my mind goes numb. I emerge from my brief trance to Raf shouting my name. I don't understand what he wants. My hands have no feeling in them. I look down at my whitened knuckles. Why can't I move? Raf kneels over the edge of the raft, and I see his lips form the word "oar" over and over again. My mind has trouble parsing his words. What does he want me to do? His hands grab my life jacket and pull me toward him. "LET.GO.OF.THE.OAR!" I comply, and with one heave he has me back in the raft, soaked and shivering.

Raf: You alright, then?
SaN: Mmm-hmm
Raf: You eejit - don't scare me like that!
SaN: (...)

(...)

He was scared?

It's official: ravenous butterflies have set up shop and are making a meal out of my innards.

Later, as we browse the gift shop and flip through the souvenir photos of our raft, I spot a photography book. I flip it open and become engrossed in the images. Over my shoulder I hear a snort of derision. "Landscapes." He's back to being himself. "I like them", I tell him. Raf walks off and becomes interested in something else, but I can't take my eyes off the book.

On my birthday that year I get a package postmarked eight weeks earlier from halfway around the world. I open it and start laughing. Landscapes.

As the afternoon turns to dusk we walk back to the bus, still damp from the water but no longer shivering. Raf and I break into a run, racing each other to the parking lot. About halfway there we stop and look at each other for no good reason. He motions in the low sun and I give my silent assent.

I jump on his back and drape my arms around his shoulders.

We don't care who's watching anymore.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

I dreamt about Raf last night. This is not unusual, as I tend to dream about him quite frequently, but most of the time I don't realize it's a dream until I wake up disappointed. This time I spent most of my REM cycle racing around, telling people I was in a dream until one of them said "Fine - WAKE UP!" and I did.

Maybe the dream was spurred on by the talk I had a few days ago with Jake, another camp figure.

Jake is one of those guys that every girl from age 5 to age 50+ has a secret crush on - and the girls and women at camp were no different. The female directors loved him, counselors were enamored by his flippant trans-Atlantic accent, and little girls went giddy trying to sign up for the activity which he would be leading. I distinctly remember sitting on a bus with other girls heading towards our 2 weeks of summer bliss, gossiping about whether or not he would be there and swapping stories about how cute he was.

Jake has this way of complimenting you that makes you feel like he's been studying you for ages, only to come up with the kind of relevant and generous compliment of which you can only hope to experience a sequel. Many hearts were broken when he got engaged and then married - the only consolation was that his wife was at least as beautiful and as kind as he was. We had emailed back and forth over the years, but as we are both notoriously bad at keeping in touch, it had been at least 7 years since I had had verbal contact with this Thoreau-quoting, French-speaking, motorcycle-riding import. Naturally, I went with impulse (nostalgia) rather than reason and picked the most convenient time I could think of to call him: while I was at the grocery store. (D'oh!)

As I stood balancing my 24 cans of Coke Zero perilously on the Cheese Nips shelf with my knee, cradling my cell phone between my ear and my shoulder, sweating profusely and wondering how stupid I sounded relaying my Raf story to Jake, I realized how I had idolized this conversation in my head. For a long time, I had thought of Jake as the end-all, be-all guru who would understand my history with Raf and comfort me by saying things like "Of course he still loves you" and "There will come a day when he'll regret what he said." But the more I talked to Jake the more I realized that when it comes to this Raf business, I truly am alone. I suppose that's another reason for this blog - communal empathy, right? There's got to be someone out there who has shared a similar experience and knows what I'm talking about.

On a separate note, Sparsely Kate left a really nice comment on my blog, telling me that she liked the flashback portion of it. Thanks for being my first supporter! Please check out her blog if you get the chance - she's lovely.


Ready for another Flashback? I thought so.


It's the Fourth of July. I'm riding a pretty Paint named Lexington through the hillside just beyond camp. Two of the girls with whom I share my cabin are trotting along beside me. I can feel the gelding twitch under the saddle - he knows we're heading for home. It's been a long day, and the merciless sun coupled with little to no shade has made the trail ride almost unbearable for the horses. Lexington is annoyed by the flies that bite his flanks but has been behaving himself so far. (Pretty impressive for an animal that spends his days being kicked and pulled at by inexperienced riders.)

Our riding instructor and trail guide, Seth, is a total hottie. One of my cabin mates and I exchange wry smiles - the other girl we're riding with hooked up with him last week in the outhouse and is gunning for a repeat performance tonight while the fireworks go off and the director's attention is diverted.

I start into a slow canter, hoping to entice someone into a race toward the stables. Seth responds, kicking his large Bay into an instant gallop, catching up to me and passing me. Lexington's competitiveness goes into overdrive, and he juts his head forward begging for the slack to transition to a gallop. I finally let him go and he blasts off after the Bay, thundering along the field and through the trees. I'm still laughing at the little alpha male underneath me as I pass Seth and make the final turn toward the stables.

Later, as I'm washing Lexington and putting him up for the night, the girl of outhouse-romp-fame comes up to me and firmly plants herself in front of the door through which I'm attempting to exit. "You're not planning on hooking up with him, are you?" I chuckle, trying to contain my hilarity, but to no avail. The tickle in my throat turns into giant, snort-filled laughs. Seth is in his 30s, and I couldn't be less interested. The girl storms off. I sigh. Women are so complicated.

My mockery of the May-December romance between my cabin-mate and Seth earns me few brownie points with the rest of our roommates, and I spend the rest of the evening being ignored. That night, I climb onto the hill overlooking the lake to watch the fireworks. As I'm trying to swat away a particularly insistent mosquito, I smell rain. Raf sits down next to me. He's been working out on the lake all day, and I'm glad he can't see me blush in the darkness when I think about how I've been watching him swim in the mornings.

We sit in silence, as usual. The fireworks start and he notices my face. "Are ya worried about somethin'?" I confess that I'm concerned for the horses. The stables are across the lake, and I'm tempted to head out there to calm them down. The loud bangs from the fireworks must be scaring them by now. Raf looks at me and says: "well, it's probably best you're not over with the horses and all that." He puzzles me. Why would it matter to him? " 'Coz I'd rather have ya here with me."

*Gulp*

I carefully lean into him and he takes my hand so that nobody else can see it. As he traces amoebas in my palm with his index finger, I feel at peace.

The Anxiety of Influence

Part of what makes it so difficult to write about Raf after all these years is that it becomes impossible to recall experiences exactly the way they were. Because I know how the story ends - the anger, the resentment, the impossible stalemate, I find it difficult to write without carefully meting out my words.

My roommate Lex is the only other person who knows about this blog (and probably its only reader). Last night, as he was perusing my first couple of posts, he said to me "I think this will be good for you...but I know you, and you're editing yourself."

I suppose he's right, but part of that comes from the desire to want to recall every experience exactly as I took it in with my whole being. Harold Bloom called this dilemma "The Anxiety of Influence" and describes it not only as all writers' inability to produce a wholly original thought because of their precursors, but also as the problem of memory superimposing itself on recollection.

I keep wondering how I should structure these posts. Would it be easier to write them the way my brain works - i.e. in flashes and snippets from the past mixed with my present stream of thought? I'll have to get some input on that after I've experimented for a while. I also wonder how long it will take for my recollection of a decade worth of memories to sync up with the present. Hmm...

For now, I'll continue with the story.


Flashback

I'm sitting on the dining hall porch at camp. It's raining, but that doesn't prevent me from intuiting Raf's presence. He's sitting at the other end, about 20 feet away with his chin on his knees, staring out at the muddy lake at the base of the hill. In a self-described effort to rebel against his father's idea of "normal", he has grown his hair into the biggest afro I've ever seen on a white man. We exchange snatches of sarcasm and somehow fall into reluctant conversation. Everyone has retreated into their cabins to wait out the storm, but we sit and talk for almost an hour, letting our legs be splattered by red clay and raindrops until we're covered in the stuff.

He tells me about his family, wondering how to tell his father that he wants to be a photographer. "My father wants me to get a real job, yeah? But what does that mean? Photography is real to me. It's what I love doing." I balk for a nanosecond - I've never been good with sudden intimacy. His honesty makes me uncomfortable, and I'm puzzled by the apparent wisdom he thinks I have to impart.

We sit in silence for so long that I think he's going to get up and leave, but he just waits for me to mull his existence over like it's the most normal thing in the world, until finally I say: "well, have you ever tried just telling the man what you want?" This is a completely foreign concept to Raf, who looks at me as if I had just suggested he take a nailgun to his eye for kicks. "Well.....? Have you?" No, he concedes, he hasn't. Tentatively, I suggest that maybe he should write his father a long, honest letter and see what happens. The earlier perplexion has disappeared from his face and suddenly he's gone, running across the grass to his cabin to start the opus. "This guy is bonkers..."

I go inside the dining hall and grab an apple. When I swing the porch door open I nearly clip his face. He's standing right smack dab in front of me holding all the writing implements he could find.

"Will you help me, then?"

Damn it. I like him.

Begin the Beguine

Where to start...?

Best to button down the hatches and bear with me. It's gonna be a bumpy ride, mates.

Flashback:
I'm circa 15. I'm at summer camp. There are gnats everywhere. A bell gives its sharp triple peal, signaling the beginning of the afternoon's activities. I roll off my cot in the squishy humidity and jog up the hill to the shooting range.

Today I will meet the reason for this blog.

He is four years older than I am and smells like rain. Today, he will teach me how to shoot a rifle. For the next two weeks, he will teach me how to forge an emotional bond with nothing more than silence and shy glances. Over the coming decade, we will continually peer over the ledge of truth and then walk away with our hands over our eyes singing "lalalalalala" to drown out the din of inevitability...

...and we will succeed in driving each other away.

But for now I present to you the story of Rafael and SaN

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It's 2:30 PM. I'm waiting for my turn in line at the range. I have no real interest in this activity - I just needed something to fill my requirements. Raf hands me a rifle. "You know how to use one of these?" he asks in his lilting accent, stressing syllables I never knew existed. I shrug. "I'm sure I can figure it out" - the retort comes out more sharply than intended. He looks at me sideways and trots off to help another shooter. I put the gun to my shoulder, aim through the sight, squeeze the trigger and flip over the bench behind me - flat onto my ass. Raf barely looks up, but the "I told you so" rings loudly in my head. I'm secretly glad he's not watching.

[Not being good at things is paralyzing to me - it's the reason that to this day I'm hesitant to walk into a new takeout place by myself because I'll have to take too much time to gape awkwardly at the menu. I like managing my expectations, what can I say?]

I aim a second time, now prepared for the recoil. A smell invades the space between my brain and my tongue and mocks my concentration. Earth and Rain. He is standing behind me now, drilling his thumb into my lower back, telling me to stand up straight, "or you'll fall on your arse again." Never in my life have I wanted to have better posture than now. But my stubborn pride resists his help. "Whatever. I got it under control." I'm brilliant, this should make him all the more eager to correct my stance.

I'm dead wrong.

Raf ignores me for the rest of the afternoon. I feel like an idiot. I vow to take a mulligan tomorrow.