Photo by Muffet on Flickr, licensed under the Creative Commons.
We spent the entire summer together. From waking thoughts to goodnight kisses, we were together. Sometimes we ran into old high school friends at the video store, or we attended barbecues that felt like reunions: everyone asking each other questions about what they were doing now, who they were seeing. Nobody asked Sean or me any questions. They figured nothing had changed in our lives since they last knew us. They were right, for the most part.
I got a job at a sock shop called Zags on 48th Street halfway through the summer. Everyone, even to this day, gets toe socks from me for their birthday. If you’re special enough, I give you toe socks with pom-poms on the ankles. One of my friends came into the store a while back. It felt like I hadn’t seen her in years, even though it hadn’t really been that long. I stared at her for so long she shivered. But she agreed to go to Helen’s after my shift nonetheless.
When we ordered our food, I noticed something peculiar. She studied her menu with intensity. We’d been to Helen’s loads of times before, so I always knew what I wanted. Kelsee took her time though, flipping through the pages, contemplating. I got my usual, no tomatoes. Kelsee ended up getting a strange deep-fried coconut tofu dish for vegans. From my understanding, Kelsee is an avid meat eater.
We caught up for a while. She asked me about Sean and I told her we were doing fine, yet I couldn’t help but notice how routine our exchange was. Everything seemed scripted when it came to playing catch-up, at least on my end. I heard myself repeating events and stories that hadn’t changed in years. Kelsee, on the other hand, spouted endless streams of new tales and experiences. She seemed so reinvigorated, I barely recognized her at times. Maybe it was her new hair style; she parts her bangs to the side now. When my food came, I noticed it came with tomatoes. I don’t know exactly why I got so angry, but I made a little scene.
Kelsee seemed appalled, “Sean doesn’t eat tomatoes either, right? That’s why we never used to get those spaghetti carry-outs for 15 at Tony’s?” she asked, and I nodded in response. “So, why don’t you eat tomatoes?” I paused in thought before I answered because I couldn’t quite remember. Tomatoes make me gag.
That following Saturday I went to my dad’s place. His new fiancée cooked us dinner. I still have reserved feelings toward her, but I no longer feel hatred; if anything, just indifference, toward both my dad and her. She has this strange way of playing with her necklace that really annoys me. Karen twirls it around her index finger until the little silver chain looks like it will just snap in two. Then, almost like a pressure cooker, she lets it all unwind. She also wears an apron when she cooks. I don’t know if most people do, but I find it overly domestic.
She made this dish with all sorts of vegetables. Green peppers, onions, green onions, carrots, red peppers, tomatoes. I tried it. I didn’t gag. It wasn’t all that bad.
* * * * *
I’m in Greece now. My dad knows someone here who gave me a job. I enter “figures” into a computer all day. But the view from my desk is nice. Rocks jut left and right, ocean lapping front and back. I love it. It’s menial work, predictable to say the least, somewhat like how things were with Sean; except it’s actually all different because things seem hopeful for once. There’s an element of surprise. I feel a gripping spark of livelihood when I sit at my desk, watching the relentless barrage of waves.
I left five days after my dad bought me a ticket. I didn’t tell Sean until the second to last day. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I thought he’d hit me. Or shake me. I wanted him to. But he just stood there, speechless.
And then I cried. Not little pearly tears like in the movies. No. I just flat-out erupted in sobs: red nose, squinty eyes, the whole shebang. He didn’t hold me. It’s my own fault, I know. But still. He just stood there, a good two feet from me, dumbfounded. When he finally asked why, I had snot dripping down my chin. I didn’t even bother to wipe it off. Why not was my response.
”What about us? You don’t love me…?” He asked me in such a funny way. The words came out separately almost, halting and sharp; the full sentences didn’t quite register in my mind. I don’t know. I don’t know.
After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say. Because I had no explanation and he had no space for acceptance, we both went home.
Last night for dinner, I had Mediterranean food. Juicy, evenly sliced wedges of red tomato. I might still love Sean. I don’t see how I’d ever stop, really. But tomatoes don’t make me gag. They make him.