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Monday November 20, 1995
I was ecstatic when you called and asked to have lunch together. Now, I'm not so sure.
You sit across from me, fidgeting with your napkin, sipping on your iced-tea, not anxious, not nervous, just restless, just bored. Your face has been carefully done up and you wear a new lipstick I see. It's such a dark red that it's almost wine.
How had I forgotten how beautiful you are? How could it have escaped me? How could I have honestly believed that I could see you today and everything would be fine?
You were always beautiful, always fair and light-haired. You were glamorous even when you got gum in your hair in junior high and had to cut it all off. You were small and curvy when I was tall and slender. You tanned while I burned. Everything you said and still say is witty, informative, sexy and fun.
You smile easily across at me and flip your hair. My heart aches. I recall weeks and months of wanting to be you, to be near you, to touch you, or be a part of your perfection. I practiced walking like you, writing like you, I practiced your easy smile and wore your perfume. I dreamed of the day you would notice me and smile at me and notice my artificial imitations of you.
People would joke at what a pair we made. You, loud and brazen, me quite, demure; delicate, you'd say. Timid, I'd say. We'd go to school or to a party and everyone would watch you, every girl envious, every guy lusting, and then you'd laugh and turn to me. You'd put your head on my shoulder or put your hand in mine. And I would want to scream to them, 'Look at what I've got! Look at the perfection on my arm! ' Of course, I never did that. But given the chance, I would now, I think.
You sip your iced-tea and ask me how I am. Fine, I tell you and I mean it. Meant it. I was fine until I saw you. I've gone on with my life, I've gone out, I've had fun. I've gone on living without you. Not always happily. But willingly.
You have a new love, you tell me. I knew this already, but I still wince to hear you say it. I've seen the two of you together; she's a small, nervous black girl with a pointed nose and a soft voice. Her name is Nia, you tell me, and having seen her I can understand why you like her. She is small and compact, she is shy and unopinionated. She worships you like everyone else, like I once did, like I would do again if circumstances permitted it.
She's in Chicago, you say, visiting her ex-boyfriend. You make a face as though the idea repulses you. Eventually you shrug it off. Why haven't you called, you ask me.
There was no reason to, I say in my mind but not out loud. I knew you didn't want me, and I didn't want you any other way. Even when I was with you I knew it was only temporary, that you'd get bored and want to move on. Foolish me. I knew all that but I fell in love anyway.
We're still friends, you insist and you take my hand when you say it. It's cold, from when you held the glass of iced-tea. I want to hear from you, you say.
Oh, Bianca, I sigh, remembering with a rush of sudden pain how sweet your name sounds. How you hated your name, wanting everyone to call you Bea until you discovered that was worse. Bianca the beautiful, you were in my mind and your name suited you just fine. You were like some Shakespearean princess, coy and teasing. And once you were mine. At least, if nothing else, I have that.
You look sad now, reflective. Your denim eyes search mine. You bow you head, Do you have to go away to school? Can't you study here? you ask, like a child.
I cannot smile to reassure you, I have to go. There's no way I can stay, I tell you. Your hand still grasps mine. I'm sorry you're leaving so soon, you say. You still don't look up.
I can feel the cafe's eyes watching us and I am close to tears. I want to die.
Your eyes study the meshing of our fingers. You say you miss me sometimes, when you're alone in your room. You look up at me finally, do I feel lonely too?
I cannot answer. You have no right to do this now, you have no right to ask me how I feel or to speak to me so kindly. When I look into your eyes I feel myself falling. But that's my fault. I could never be as strong.
No, I say and tears spill over. You can see that I'm lying, I was never good at it but you nod anyway. Okay, you agree.
You throw a few crumpled bills on the table and rise. With a final toss of your hair, you're gone. Again. I sit there waiting for the world to end, for the earth to open and swallow me up. Nothing happens.
I see on the napkin a smudge of your lipstick and finally my tears stop. I pick it up and look at your crimson lips imprinted there. I press them to my own.
My head hurts. My heart aches. My stomach cramps and my eyes haze. I burn inside. I burn with the love that I lost when I lost you.
Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson
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