The Art of Unlearning Love

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Come here."

“You’re so full of it,” I said. He stared at me, mouth open and arm still extended toward the third, un-sat-upon, cushion at the center of the couch.

“I what?" he asked, finally.

“You heard me,” I said. Here you are probably expecting me to say it took all of me to say it, that there was longing in the pit of my stomach, my heart, my loins. But the only thing gnawing at my gut was a little bit of hunger. Nothing sat in my loins or my heart. In my mind, mild annoyance.

“You’re the one who said…” He stopped. “I see what you’re doing, you’re punishing me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Look-“

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he snapped. “You’re punishing me for taking so long.”

“I’m not punishing you,” I said. “And I don’t think you’ve taken long.”

“It’s been six months”

“And you’re drunk,” I said. “I don’t think you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” he said, his arm finally relaxing to his side, curling thick fingers into the fringe of the blanked that shielded us both from sticking to the leather couch in the summer heat. “Where else would I be?” There had been a time when I’d dreamed about those hands, but the more he offered them to me the more I knew that time was dead. Maybe not so dire as dead, but certainly it had gone.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” I said.

“I’m trying to hold you.”

“That's not what I mean,” I said. “I mean why did you wait til the ship had sailed before you tried to flag it down?”

“Is that your way of saying I missed the boat?” he asked.

I didn't say anything for a long time, checking my resolve for holes. It was good, sturdy, and would bear water and weight.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He was silent, then, chewing thoughts over between pursed lips. There had been a time I had dreamed of that mouth, too, but that time had drifted away with the current. No, it had been forced away, in the beginning, until the current had taken hold. But don’t you always have to row a bit, just to get away from the shore?

“I’m sorry," he said. “I know I treated you badly.” I nodded emphatically. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”

“No,” I said. “I’m sure most women wait around until you’re good and ready.”

“I never asked you to wait,” he said.

“But you’re acting like I kicked your cat now that you figured out I haven’t.” My words may have been harsh, but there was no anger in me. It was like speaking to a child.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I’d never kick your cat.” I knew he wanted to argue with me, but there was something in him that sensed his childishness and he sat back on the couch, staring at his knees. I took in the room. A bachelor pad, if the bachelor lived in a library. The walls were lined with shelves and the shelves were stuffed with books. The books were the obvious property of a forcibly learned man who had been learned for far too long. The emphasis was not on the learning anymore.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Though I probably should be. I haven’t been mad at you in months.”

He nodded. "I see.”

He had invited me over so that we could both avoid the Fourth of July fireworks. He was drunk and I was sober, just like the night six months before when he had kissed me an apology for doing exactly what the kiss had done. It was better that way. Sober, I had all the sense in the world. Full awareness of myself, my feelings. He had gin in his stomach and, clearly, that brought the loneliness up and out of his mouth in the words “come here”. I wouldn't come.

“I can leave,” I said.

“Maybe that's best," he said.

I got to my feet.

“I did everything you asked,” he said. “I never disappeared. I didn’t let it ruin the friendship.”

“I did everything you asked,” I said. “I got over it.” I turned my back on his open mouth and open arms and slipped out the door of his house. The walk to my car was blistering hot and the car was hotter. I wanted to feel more badly than I did. I wanted to feel something beyond the annoyance, the frustration. Six months ago I would have greeted him with open arms of my own. Five, even. But the heart does what it can to heal, just like the body, and I did my best not to pick at the scabs. I had done my best not to think of him as I thought him then, both smart and clever, handsome and well dressed. I had done my best to think of him as he was. To unsee him as an object of attraction and see him again as a man. With that done, it could not be undone.

I put the car in neutral and let myself roll down his driveway backwards, watching his front window for flickers of life, knowing that he was trying to unlearn me as well. When I pulled out onto the road the fireworks display was just beginning to end.