what you've done here
is put yourself between a bullet and a target
When I got back into the car, she didn't say anything else. I began to wonder if she'd really spoken at all, or if I had just pretended she said what I wanted to hear.
Finally, she started the car, and we drove in silence. We ended up at her apartment, but she still didn't talk. I figured she meant for me to follow her when she got out of the car. She left the door open after she unlocked it and went inside.
It's not what you think. Nothing happened.
I stood in front of the door awkwardly with my hands jammed in my pockets, waiting for a sign. She tossed her car keys onto the kitchen counter and the sound of the impact was jarring. It was practically still echoing when she folded herself onto one end of her couch. I sat down on the other side and there we were in the dark, like guilty teenagers awaiting punishment.
Maybe she was waiting for me to say something. I froze. The reality of this was beginning to sink in. For the first time, I was a little afraid. I closed my eyes to clear my head, and when I opened them again it was like I was suddenly possessed by the spirit of someone much bolder than myself.
I looked over at her and for a second I wondered if maybe she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. I've heard about people who can do that if they're tired enough, and if she hadn't slept for however long she hadn't slept for, it wasn't impossible. I decided to make a careful and cautious move anyway and see what happened.
She didn't fight it, but after a minute she put both her hands on my shoulders and put some distance between us. "Not tonight, okay?" she said gently.
I was just relieved to hear her say anything at all, some indication that she wasn't asleep or dead. I nodded, and she twisted her mouth into a small smile that looked painful, even in the dark, when the lines on her face had receded into the shadows.
I smiled back at her, stupid and hopeful, and took one of her hands and pulled her into a reclining position with me, so that I was flat on the couch and she was half on the couch and half on me, her face turned toward the ceiling.
She said, "I want you to think about this."
It was my turn to be silent.
"Things could never be the same," she continued. "Or we could stop it right here. You could let me drive you home. Nothing has to change."
I couldn't think of anything to say. It was pretty obvious that this was her way of offering herself an out, disguised as offering me one.
She was right, of course; nothing could ever be the same if we didn't stop here. I could hear her breathing change, just barely. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it eased my mind a little.
It was so difficult to figure out whether this was worth sacrificing the things that would die as a result of what might happen. In the end, the dilemma I kept thinking about wasn't whether my parents and my friends would hate me but whether it would be worth avoiding a bitter end down the line by never going far enough to make anyone bitter.
And I decided that it wasn't worth never knowing.
Maybe that was a foolish choice.
I told her I wasn't going to change my mind but that it was her choice, too. I wasn't the only one with sacrifices to make.
She said she was too tired to care about any of the things she might lose anymore.
I wondered if she meant me. I didn't ask.
She took one of my hands in hers and I was surprised at how cold her touch suddenly was. The shock faded as she absorbed my warmth, turning me colder while she heated up a little.
We just lay there like that for a while, together, whispering like we were trying to keep a secret from prying ears. It occurred to me that we made a pretty strange pair: I was too old to be young, she was too young to be old.
Maybe I should have made her push herself ahead into the next stage of her life instead of encouraging her to fall back into old habits. I don't know. I'm pretty tired myself now.
I couldn't be sure if minutes or hours had passed by the time she finally sat up and said, "I should take you home now."
I walked to the door, while she retrieved her keys from the counter. When she came closer to me I opened the door to let her pass through, but she paused instead of passing by. She raised up on tiptoes to kiss me chastely and then she dropped down to her normal level again. "I hope this works out," she said, looking out the door instead of at me. "It's still not too late to stop. Nothing's happened yet that can't be taken back. But if you're sure, I guess you can meet me here tomorrow night at 12. Bring your own car."
The disguise she tried to lay over her own pessimism by putting the decision to pursue this or not in my hands just made me more determined to prove she was wrong--about me, about herself, about what this was or what it could be.
So I did meet her the next night, driven by obstinacy as much as anything else.
But I was wrong, and she was right.
Things never were quite the same after that.
(and it won't be long before
you're pulling yourself away)
- - -
Citizen Cope, "Bullet and a Target"
