Spinning Stagnant

She's a lot different than you. I grew up thinking I was attracted to blondes, but I fell for you, who had hair as black as jet. I thought I liked those of shorter height, but you were nearly as tall as I was. She's sitting there across from me, talking, her lips moving constantly. I'm trying to stay attentive, but the setting is too loud, the room too dim, and what lighting there is hurts my eyes.

It has been a while since I've come out again, over a year, now that I think about it. I was almost afraid to step out of our doorway and into the parking lot. I stayed as far away from strangers as I could, and to be fair, it seemed they did the same to me too. I had never noticed how intimidating other humans could be. But I suppose my perspective is skewed. My only companion for a year now has been my screens and Charlie.

I thought I was ready for today, you know. I had lost myself in fitness while locked in our house. I bought a new treadmill and put it in front of the television in the den. I felt a little bad when I got rid of our old couch, but I supposed that letting it sit there collecting dust was worse than making room for something new. I had always thought people who intentionally exhausted their bodies to comfort themselves after a long day were crazy, but I can see now why they do it. It's actually quite blissful, losing myself in a run which lasts hours, focusing on each breath as if fighting to stay alive. When I'm running on the treadmill at least each breath has a purpose; not like when I'm sitting at my desk or lying in bed, staring at a screen.

Because that's when thoughts can run unharnessed, and I don't want that.

She wanted to meet downtown, which would have been easier, considering that's where our townhome is, where we knew every street like the backs of our hands. Every café, bar and theater is a mark on my memory. Every alleyway, each stench that blows from the gutters and sidewalks, the scents that waft into my nostrils from the open doors of the bakeries and eateries, they're all as familiar to me as my own backyard. They're nearly full to the brim with people tonight, and I suppose life will get better for everyone in this town.

But I didn't want to go downtown.

So I asked her to meet at a French eatery on the edge of a nearby suburb. I downloaded all the apps people use nowadays, Hinge, Bumble, Tinder. I matched with her on all three of them, and so I thought it must be fate, a sign. And what better thing to finally get me moving out and about than the stars seemingly aligning? So I opted for a cab over driving there myself in our car, and I watched the fleeting lights of night out the window. The driver's navigation said it would take an hour, but I never knew an hour could pass by so fast.

Watching people who were laughing and excited, walking down the sidewalks with anticipation, marveling at the open buildings and restaurants as if their whole lives were waiting before them--I thought I wouldn't feel anything while seeing these things, least of all scared.

But I was scared.

I felt fear, afraid that I would be left behind when all the world continues spinning. Is it wrong of me to feel this way? Our next door neighbors moved out of their flat after buying a new house in the suburbs together. The graduate student upstairs was hired by a large company in a larger city upstate where his fiancé lives. The baker's family just welcomed a new child. And here I am, staring at screens and running on a treadmill for a year. You would know what to say or how to feel better in these situations.

It's really not fair, you know? Some days I want to close my eyes and just dream forever. But still I wake up every day, and every moment is a second spent trying not to think of you, the happy and the sad. I never imagined it would be so hard, trying not to see you everywhere I look. My screen is my best friend, because it gives me something to stare at, yet it constantly changes so I'm never not distracted.

Tapping "download" on the App Store almost felt as if I was somehow tarnishing our memories together. A hole in a heart must be filled, but why is it that the things we must do to repair it make us feel bad? Crying is a poultice for the broken heart, but it waxes me of the strength to pick up the pieces.

I walked in through the doors of the restaurant, forgetting to say "thank you" to the couple who held the door open for me. Funny how one year alone can change behaviors that had come naturally before. They looked at me strangely, and I felt like my insides were being gnawed at. I suddenly didn't want to be there, surrounded by strangers I didn't know, people who were laughing, glad to be out, happy. When I struggled to answer the hostess' questions with the appropriate answers, I nearly walked out, until I saw her sitting there at a table. She had already recognized me and was waving, smiling that same smile that everyone else was wearing, expectant, anticipatory.

For a moment my heart skipped, but that enjoyment didn't last long, because I remembered--like a jack-in-the-box that thinks it can fly, until the metal spring reminds it of its place.

I sat down and awkwardly tried to make conversation. Luckily, she was like you, and she made up for the things I was lacking in, much like you did. She had me laughing at her jokes, and she laughed at my weird quips too.

The two of you couldn't have been more different in appearance. You had jet black hair, she is blonde. You were tall, she is short.

Yet she is like you in so many ways. I had trouble ordering food--even something as mundane as that was difficult after not being out for such an extended period of time--so she ordered for me, for which I will be eternally grateful. We had our appetizers, and our soups, and I was happy--or rather, I had forgotten momentarily the state of mind I had dug myself into. But then I would think of how I had been feeling for the last year, how I thought I should be feeling now, and I'd close my eyes.

She is like you in that she likes lamb. I hadn't known too many people who had enjoyed lamb as much as you had, but I think I found someone who matches your appetite for it. She eats it medium rare like you did, with far too much blood for my taste. She even paired the dish with the same kind of wine you used to--a light merlot.

Do you remember the argument we had the first time you did that? I said it was akin to blasphemy that you didn't pair a meat dish with the rich kind, but you claimed wine pairings were only preference. I imagine you thought of it as revenge when you found out I put ketchup on my pizza and teased me for it every time we ordered a box during a night in. Just so you know, now that I think about it, ketchup is preference too.

It's the little things that I think of these days. The empty spaces are not what bother me the most anymore--not that I've gotten over it, I'm just used to them. I realized that the big, cozy couch in the den was not those things, so I got rid of it for the treadmill. I used to love our night drives back in the day, but I realize now that our car is too large and uses too much gas, and Charlie barks far more than he used to when it's only the two of us. I don't think I can sell it yet however, as I still haven't cleaned that coffee stain from your tumbler in the cupholder, or the marks of your toes on the windshield.

I hadn't drank for a whole year, and she shared some of her light merlot with me, so I am a little tipsier than I would normally be. I think I can see now why you preferred the light over the rich. It may not bring out the flavor of the lamb as well as a rich would have, but it cleanses the palate of its gaminess like a fresh breeze. I still prefer the rich, but I can see why the light is good. It's not better, or worse, just different, and just as wonderful. It would have been nice if we could have shared a moment where we both relished in the taste of light merlot with meat. It's these little regrets that pile in my heart, you know. I do wish you knew.

I am thinking that I want to give this a try. Maybe it's me talking, maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the loneliness of one year alone. Would that be alright? I think I'm ready to pick up the pieces now, and I know I'll feel bad when I try to do something about it. But matching on three apps had to be a sign, and the fact she's so different from, yet so alike you almost seems a seal of approval. So maybe I'll accept the light merlot and lamb as they are, and I'll learn to love them properly this time. Maybe this is you telling me the world keeps spinning, and it's okay for me to finally get up and move along with it.