Hope Dies Last

I’m the one who wrote you love letters. The one that reminded you of Demi Moore. You held my hand so gently. I’m certain that if I had stayed you would have been just as gentle with my heart. You could; we were only 14 years old.

I’m the one who said, “A final question. Do you like avocado?” “Yes” you said. “You’re perfect.” I replied. I’m also the one you lied to so easily. Allegiance to avocado is no longer a deal breaker, but being lied to is.

I’m the one that loved you. “You’re the one” you wrote to me on the back of a postcard. Later, I was the one who cried, “I’ll always love you, even if you don’t.” You didn’t. And now, I don’t.

I’m the one who let you kiss me on the steps of a dorm room. I’m the one who ushered you in hips swaying and then promptly shoved you back out the door. I wasn’t ready for the weight of a different man on me.

I’m the one in the red dress with the ruby lily in her hair. The one that dumped you over a cup of coffee (that you paid for).  I always have trouble remembering your name.

I’m the one who fell off the step machine when you walked into the room. I’m also the one that slammed her head into the locker door when you asked me for my name. You made me so nervous.

I’m the one that slipped you my number in a matchbox. The one you called ‘deceptively petite’. The one that stopped waiting for you (or thinking about you) a long time ago.

I’m the one that you helped with the New York Times Crossword every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night. The one you kissed when the lights went out. When the lights came back on, I was nibbling on a pencil, forehead furrowed, happily completing the crossword alone.

I’m the one you nicknamed ‘Gazelle’. The one you wanted to see every single day until the day you didn’t. I’m the one that is over you.

I’m the one you shouldn’t have kissed. I’m also the one that likes a man who follows through. You never did. I’m the one that walked away, looked back for just a moment and then remembered that I am a woman that does.

I’m the one with the long, brown hair and the blunt fringe. I am the one sitting in a corner of a room quietly hoping that you’ll find me and see me and sit with me for awhile.

And then I won’t be the one that says, ‘Remember me’. Then I’ll be the one who whispers in your ear,

‘Remember when…’

(Revised and updated from the original)

I read all your comments and I read all your emails and most of the time they make me smile so broadly that all you would see, if you could see, is gum and teeth. My real, spontaneous smile is dorky. But sometimes, your comments and your emails, make me sad. Because you, and you and you relate to some of the more painful seconds of my life.I hate that.

No matter our combined experiences, I grip onto hope because I have no other choice.  Hope has saved me from becoming stone hard, and cynical.  Sometimes, hope has tortured me and keeps me back; thinking of situations long past their expiration date. Very rarely, hope eludes me. And when it does, when I can no longer see or hear or feel hope, when I am no longer able to find inspiration, I read some words that a friend once penned with me in mind:

Hope fades.

It seeps through every crack until it doesn’t have enough to glow, and I know
that you’re tired. I see the blinds come over your eyes when you’re through with
looking out for that night-light you can keep in your pocket all the time.
Don’t put down that red lip-stick, don’t you dare. You need to draw
eyes to your lips because that is where people see your sunrising soul-
through your wise words and quirky quips,
the quick curve of your smile.

Hope fades, but it never dies.
You taught me that.

I will never put down that red lip-stick. (OK, maybe I will. But only to replace it with my pink one): don’t you dare put it down either.

Share with me, what inspires you to hold out for hope?

It occurred to me on Saturday night that my heart has hardened.

I don’t mind this change at all. Indeed, I’ve welcomed it. I’ve used up too many tissues and ruined too many perfectly drawn lines across my eyelids to last me quite some time. It seems about right that I put up some defenses. I sat–alone–once my plans for the evening had fallen through and it made sense to be alone. It was easy. I picked up a DVD effortlessly and secretly smiled as I watched couples and friends arguing over movie titles. I ordered food for one without looking at a menu and I poured my body into an over-sized t-shirt and torn leggings. I twisted my hair into a bun and ate ice-cream from the carton and I couldn’t care less that I’d become a cliche.

Once the heart hardens and once its gates are protected, there is no way for sadness to sneak in.  Hope is lost and the silver lining is that it will force me to stop looking for fulfillment through other people. My heart feels stronger. Even though my head knows  that the only reason I feel stronger is because I’m closed to the potential of feeling vulnerable.

Whatever. It’s working.

In fact, I’m smiling more. Inside, at least. And I think bright thoughts like:  Colour your life with lipstick. Even waterproof mascara has been known to smudge. So, I paint my lips pink to show that I can play this game too; even when I know that my lips are lying.

I’m not a pink kind of girl at all.

I’m a lips bitten to a raw red  girl;  a deep red that will always  match my short, neatly squared nails. And even though they’re short, and even though they’re square, they are still nails that will scratch. Particularly those who ask to come close to me and when I do, huff and puff and blow the house down. And, I’m still rebuilding from the last time.

I’m lying through my teeth. I say that I don’t believe in me. I say that I don’t believe in him or us or the future. But, I do. I say I’m over him and I say that I don’t care about him and I say that I’m friends with him but I do and I do and I’m not.

I lie because I don’t want to give in to feeling. I want to stay numb. So, I paint my lips pink and pretend that I can play too.When the truth is that I’m all lies.

My heart hasn’t hardened at all.

On Friday, I was in his neighbourhood. It happens to be one of my favourite places in Athens. While it is only a ten minute drive  from my flat I haven’t been able to return since he broke it off. In fact, the last time I was there was over seven month ago when I was  accidentally leaving behind a pair of earrings. Last night, I sat in the passenger seat and as the driver weaved through the curvy mountain road and we passed landmarks that remind me of him, my mind went back to the summer I spent in Vouliagmeni.

The air is different there. I’ve always felt it. In the middle of winter or in the hopeful stirrings of spring or even on suffocating nights of summer, the breeze there feels brand new. The people are different too; a little less neurotic than the average Athenian. It must help that the Med is only an inhale and an exhale away. Life pauses there, even with cars whizzing by at unjustifiable speeds on the sea road.

I remembered our third date (or was it our fourth?) We had spent the entire day in the sun. Then we spent all evening in the dusk. Then we spent all night in the dark. I remember my burnt cheeks and his red eyes. I remembered those few slow minutes between dusk and dark when I had randomly blurted,

‘Five’

‘Five?’ he had asked.

‘Five times’ I had clarified.

‘Five times what?’

I remembered the way I smiled and kinda dropped my eyes because I was nervous. Sometimes I do that. Sometimes I say things without thinking the entire conversation through. He needed an explanation for the spontaneous number calling and I didn’t want to have to spell it out. So I had just kinda repeated the sentiment,

‘I’ve been counting. And. I’m. At. Five. Times. That. I. Want. You. To…’ I had hoped my eyes would help him finish my sentence. His grin told me he had.

‘Only? I’m at like fifty-five’.

I don’t know the reason we didn’t kiss right then and there. But I remembered that later after our first, our second, our fiftieth kiss, I would throw out numbers at him; especially when he would go off on one of his geeky rants of how news anchors were ruining the English language.

‘Three’ I would say.

He would come back to me with a higher number–until the day he didn’t come back with a number at all. I suppose a smarter woman would have seen those numberless nights as an obvious sign of his wavering interest. But that damn breeze in Vouliagmeni must have gone and blown all the red flags out of my view.

On Friday, I returned to Vouliagmeni. I was scared that the disappointment of another failed romance would have changed my perception of that palm tree haven. I was scared that it wouldn’t be the same inspiring place it once was for me. I was scared that when I looked into the sky I wouldn’t see endless possibility. Instead I would just see never-ending loss. There are countless of other places in this city that have been ruined for me by heartbreak of all kinds. I didn’t want this to become one of those places.  As I stood on the edge of the marina–watching the pristine, white yachts bopping up and down–the breeze came up from behind me and greeted me in a muted whistle.

I felt such sweet relief.  It hadn’t  changed at all.

It still feels brand new.

It was early morning and for a woman who doesn’t take sales as seriously as her gender shoulds her to take them, I was on my way to Zara.It was pouring down with rain. A fitting tribute to the state of my mind. Feeling pessimistic, I was surprised to find a parking space only ten short steps away from my destination. Most spaces in Athens require parallel parking; a manoeuvre that I have just about mastered and could do with my eyes half closed.

On this particular day however my over confidence got the better of me. It could have been the rain, it could have been the greyness of my mood and the earliness of the morning but as I reversed and turned, I nipped the stationary car next to me.

It was early, cold and raining and there was no one else on the road. Not a single soul. My instinct was to jump out and inspect the damage I had caused. Thankfully, it was minimal; nothing a paint job couldn’t fix. No indentations just a tiny scratch. I then took a photo of my handiwork. Still not a single soul. I felt that I needed a presence; some other person to tell me what to do. Perhaps, a crowd. To condone me for my appalling parking skills or to applaud me for my humanity.

But as with most events in my life, it was just me, the rain and this drama I had created.

‘I could leave and no one would ever know it was me‘ I thought.

Instead, I parked (making sure not to hit him again) and wrote a note on the back of a receipt.

Dear Black Astra Driver,

I am so sorry. I accidentally bumped into the left side of your car as I was parking. My number is [redacted]. Please call me. I’d like to make it up to you. Again, I am so sorry!

I left the note on his windshield and went home. My shopping plans canceled. Thankful that the darkness of my mood was now–at the very least–confirmed by a concrete reason.

My number was never used for reasons I do not understand. But every now and again, I think of that day. My action and then my reaction. I think about the way that I took responsibility. I think about that thought that ran through my mind while I was there in the moment. How easy it could have been to avoid, to ignore, to deny and to carry on shopping because there was no other human around to notice the damage I had caused. How easy it would be to carry on living and never acknowledge the inconvenience I may have caused another person.

And then I think about the men (and friends) that have denied me a conversation. I think about the people that have refused to take responsibility for the scars they have left me. I have defended these people because that is the way I am wired. I can find a justification to almost all the bad things that have been done to me.   Tragic [and extreme] case in point: I can find no hatred within me for the person who stabbed my father to death. This was the early 90s in South Africa; apartheid was the parent of all black people and my father was white.  His dying will never be justified to me.  But–in my mind–the actions of the man who held that knife can be justified by that much larger social issue.

But then I realize that I had a choice on that day. A split second choice between running away or admitting I made a mistake and accepting the consequences. Whatever those may have been. If I had that choice, then most of us [barring the sociopaths among us] have that choice. And I think to myself that I’d like to meet a man who takes responsibility for his actions. A man who mans up and has the awkward conversation with me. I am not interested in a person who has witnessed the pain they have caused me and chosen to look the other way. I am not interested in a person who takes the easy way out. [Even though I can understand the reasons that they do.]

Some may argue that this is a high expectation. But I think it is probably the very least we should expect from one another.

Some compassion.

A little acknowledgment of our own mistakes.

Some sort of sincere regret.

I’ll take it.

Even if it is in the form of a hastily written apology on the back of a forgotten receipt stuffed underneath a windshield wiper.