When the end came, it seemed inevitable. For a while now, the I-love-yous held more of a question than a promise. The kisses, close-mouthed and compensatory, got fewer and farther in between. Caresses, once gratuitous and freely given, now only appeared in lieu of words not spoken.
Answering questions becomes a chore. Where once, we lied curled up into each other's bodies, eyes lapping up every words that changed the shape of the lips, words stuttering, struggling to get out all at once in a haste to make the other understand and to know; where once, questions were a gateway to the soul.
The pauses grow longer between the chiasm of question asked and answer offered. Before, everything was a contest, to see who would give the best, and the realest answer. Now, it was a game of chicken. The first one to blink loses. The first one to talk cries uncle.
The pauses hurt. Especially in the dead of night, after everything has gone to sleep, the questions awaken.
Alex?
Pause.
Piper.
Pause.
Can we..?
Pause.
I have to work tomorrow. But soon, okay?
Pause.
Okay.
Pause.
Pipes?
Pause.
Alex?
Pause.
I love you..? (The fucking question mark at the end hurts like a bitch).
Pause.
I love you too babe.
/
One thing I found out pretty quickly, before there even was an "us", was that the job came first. It wasn't noticeable, at first, because I was so caught up in the whirlwind that was Alex, and her life, and this sense of adventure. As we settled into a routine though, as routine as it can be when you fly off to Greece at the drop of the hat, it became more about the post-midnight phone calls, the time zones, and the deals. It was easy to over look, initially, because I was plenty compensated; Alex made sure I knew if she had a choice, it wouldn't even be a choice.
It's funny. When you're in the early stages of a relationship, all you can see is them. Their eyes are a colour unlike any you've seen before. Their laugh, you swear, can cure the sick. Their smile belongs amongst the paintings in the Louvre. I can attest to that, considering how many times I've been there, mostly on my own.
Paris. The city of love. A city meant to be discovered together with your lover. I find this a clever saying, and I use it on Alex a few times, amused at the way the words tumble around in my mouth. But Alex, busy Alex, overworked and tense Alex, reminds me that this isn't her first time through this part of the world.
My amusement dies a little. I wonder, without meaning to, or wanting to, I wonder exactly how many times in the past has she discovered this city together with a lover.
She tells me to go out, see the sights, knock myself out.
So I do exactly that. I walk the Louvre alone, and manage to enjoy myself. I eat lunch at a quaint little bistro, watching people, and remembering how I used to welcome solitude before Alex. I almost don't even think of Alex, holed up in the apartment nose deep into her computer, phone glued to her ear. It's fine. It's all good.
I stay out later than I've cared to for in a long time, and walking through the city of love at night, I realize, is fucking depressing if you're sans lover. I stumble across a small, barely underground club, and I walk in, immediately to be shrouded in loud thumping music that intrudes on every thought in my head.
It's pleasant not to think for a while.
I get drunk; mostly off of the attention strangers pay me, and some because of actual alcohol. I dance. I move, in sync with the bass that shatters mountains of gloom within me, and lift me out of my funk. I dance. Strangers, people I wouldn't even look at if a certain someone was here with me, hold me as I grind against them, move as if in a trance, a woman possessed. Tonight, I'm on my own. I don't lock eyes with anyone, not knowing how far I'd go if I saw someone looking at me like I hadn't been looked at in a long time. I scare myself tonight.
I'm in the bathroom, throwing water on my face, trying to clear away… I don't know what. Maybe this person, who when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize anymore. I feel my bag vibrate on the counter, and I find it's Alex who's calling me.
She must be worried. Or pissed. Or both.
Good.
I don't answer. I want to, but I don't. I walk out, and it's more dancing. More strangers. More hands.
When I finally decide to leave, I'm excited for what awaits me at home. In my drunken stupor it takes me three tries to unlock the door of the apartment, and even then, it's Alex on the inside who wrenches it open for me. She looks murderous, and a little intimidating, but I like it.
Where the fuck have you been.
Well where the fuck have you been Alex? I'm not sure if I say this out loud, or that if I do, she can make out the words, but I feel awfully proud of myself for making her feel whatever she's feeling in this moment.
This is my world Alex; you're in my passive aggressive bubble. I've had a whole life of antagonizing people when they've made me feel less. A whole life of turning it around, aren't you proud of me?
I saunter in, dropping my shit wherever it suits me, and behind me I can feel Alex seething. Do you have any idea how worried I've been.
I've kinda been counting on that. Again, I don't know if this is a thought, or words, but there it is. Antagonize.
I turn to her, lock eyes, and tell her I did exactly what she asked me to do. I got out of her hair. I had a great time.
And I didn't even need you.
She doesn't bristle at that like I'd hoped for, but then again, she's good at masking her feelings. So I push. Because I'm good at pushing.
I tell her about my day, and she doesn't say anything. I tell her about my night, and her eyes catch fire. I take great pleasure in describing all the people I danced with, all the people who bought me drinks. I tell her about all the people who paid attention to me. All the people who wanted to take me home.
I'm not saying I would have gone. But I'm not saying I wouldn't have either.
So why didn't you.
Who says I didn't.
A jealous Alex is a dangerous Alex. A jealous Alex is a predator. No longer caring about masking her emotions, a dangerous Alex is exactly what I'm looking for.
When we connect it's fierce, and angry and about ten kinds of fucked up, but I'm too drunk to give a shit right now. She unleashes her inner animal, and I lap it all right up. So much pent up sexual hunger, so many words swallowed, so many accusations kept locked up. Everything is unleashed.
She tells me, with her nails digging into my back, she tells me how fucking immature she thinks I am. That this is what grownups do. They work. They prioritize. I tell her, with my lips how much I resent being patronized, all for expressing myself.
She says fuck you with her teeth, and then she does.
The only thing we're still good at, fucking.
When I apologize, and I do apologize, she accepts. I tell her, with my fingers brushing back hair when she's between my legs, I tell her it was wrong of me, what I did.
I tell her, stop. I tell her maybe this isn't the solution.
I tell her maybe we should talk about this.
The only thing she says in reply is maybe, as she slips into me her dexterous fingers, her mouth showing me no mercy; her mouth claiming possession of what she believes is hers, and I don't have it in me anymore to fight. I convince myself its fine. It's all good.
And then she shoves me off the edge and I fall with a smile on my face.
/
We settle into this roller-coaster routine. Settling with Alex in the picture doesn't feel like settling at all. At least to my 24 year olds eyes. Alex, after all, was the love of my life.
Maybe we should have left Paris earlier. Maybe we stayed just a little longer than we should have. Paris. The city of love.
The city of our downfall.
The straw the breaks the drug mule's back is when she asks me to carry drugs for the second time. As if the first time wasn't bad enough. The first time, where I didn't know the risks involved. The first time, where I wasn't aware of the sword that hung over my naïve little head filled with the desire to prove something to Alex.
The first time was terrifying, but only after. The second time, however, isn't scary; it isn't daunting. What it is is an act of betrayal. A betrayal of the trust I placed in Alex since the first time; since her promise that she would never put me in harm's way again.
It's a betrayal and yet it's Alex looking at me like I've cheated on her. She's yelling at me, saying I'm suddenly too straight for her; as if that's what this about. Her manipulation wears on me now, now that I can see past the veil of admiration I've always felt for her. She's human. Excruciatingly, devastatingly just human.
She's not above twisting my words, twisting my feelings, twisting my heart to make me give in. She does everything she can to make me feel like an asshole for saying no.
And when I turn to walk away, she tries to scare me into staying, her patronizing tone setting my resolve further.
When she sees that, she tries one final time. And this one stings, because she uses my love for her, she uses my trust in her. Her eyes grow softer, her voice wavers and she says she thought we were a team.
When I don't respond, she's not above looking at me like I'm abandoning her because I choose not to put myself in a position that could get me killed.
Abandoning. I could laugh. Honey, you don't even know abandonment yet.
Of course, I don't either, but wait for it.
I make arrangements. I spend countless talk time minutes sobbing into Polly's ear, who thankfully doesn't rub it in. I tell her, I'm through, I tell her, I can't do this anymore. I tell myself, this isn't love.
I almost believe myself too.
Polly helps in whatever way she can, although no one can help me right now. The illusion is broken, and the world doesn't make sense anymore, the way it used to.
I cover up my feelings beneath the present anger that I'm feeling, a true Chapman at heart. My flight is booked, my suitcases are packed. Alex tries to engage me in a conversation, in a fight, anything to get me to stay. But I'm adamant. I'm actually proud of myself for not getting soft.
This is about survival.
One last thing that I need from the Godforsaken apartment in this fucked up city, is my passport. I can't find it anywhere, and Alex, who would do anything to get me to stay, has my passport. I'm sure.
She acts like a baby, sullen, quiet, not giving me my passport. She is not above deliberately making me miss my flight.
Alex?
Pause.
Passport?
Pause.
Hello?!
Pause.
Just when I've had it with her, she speaks up. Though it's not what I thought I'd hear.
My mom died.
Pause.
My movements halt. What? Those words, put together like that don't even make sense. And for one moment, one horrible, nasty moment that I will never forgive myself for, I think this is another one of her manipulations.
Moment over, and I feel myself walking over to Alex. Her face breaks me. I wipe away her tears that just keep on coming, like she's a child. She may as well be, her mom just died. I hold her, wishing my hands were strong enough to piece her back together.
Alex without Diane doesn't make sense.
Much as I want to comfort her, to be there for her, my insides are waging a war. My mind is made up, or at least, it was up until a moment ago, to leave. But now. I don't know.
She expects me to stay. She expects me to be a decent human being, I think. And I want to. Oh God, Alex, how badly I want to.
Even though my words say I can't go with you, that I dumped you, my heart; my traitorous, stupid fucking heart, it beats for you. It constricts in pain, over you.
She wants me to be her friend. And the way her voice breaks over that word, I almost give in. again. This is Alex after all. The love of my life.
The love of my life, while waiting for me to answer, turns to the chest of drawers, and tells me where she hid my passport.
Alex, who would do anything to stop me from leaving. Alex, the liar. Alex the manipulator.
I fish out my passport, hold it up with disdain seeping through my eyes and tell myself this, this is the reason why I must leave. Now.
Almost as if she can read my mind, she tells me not to leave. She begs. That scares me. That scares me because Alex and begging don't go together, because I never wanted to have this power over her.
It scares me because there this power is laced with the sick taste of vindication.
I give her one last look, and I hope it doesn't betray the storm of conflict brewing within me because she'll pounce on any sign of weakness.
One last look that doesn't last long enough to let her tears affect me. One last look at the face that I'll probably never forget.
One last look and I turn and walk away.
I never look back.