This kind of conversation makes me want to rip my hair out. It means nothing, it fills airspace, it is noise pollution. Not bad, can’t complain, beautiful night for it, how’s the humidity, any plans, send my love, great to see you.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I announce, and it is only upon standing that I realise I am a little wobbly.
On impulse, I grab an open bottle of Prosecco out of the cooler bag, knowing there are two more should my family protest. Fran stands waiting in silence without a smile or a signal. Part of me wants to warn him, to steer him away from the clutches of such a bad person, but as Iamthat person, I choose the option that benefits me, leading the way through the picnickers to an unclaimed table furthest from the festivities. It is hidden behind a hedge and does not have a view of the stage. We dodge children on the loose, free to roam while their parents get tipsy on their variously patterned rugs. Funny how drinking in the park will get you in trouble if you are young or poor-looking or anything but white, while here it is celebrated as a cornerstone community event. I am fairly sure I just saw the mayor and his much younger wife knee-deep in a cheese platter and a bottle of red.
‘Here looks good,’ I say, plonking myself on the silver bench.
Fran takes more time to settle, as though he is not quite sure this is the outcome he desired when approaching our family unit. I could never tire of looking at his face, though there is a shadow across it I have not seen before.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, to hurry along any communication to the contrary.
‘Not really,’ he replies.
I know Fran and I know he will say what he wants to say, that I should not push him to come out with it faster than he is ready to. It is pattern recognition; knowledge hard won through years of trial and error. Frustration still blooms, so I hold the bottle towards him. He squeezes in next to me, takes a long drink and passes it back. I mimic his timing, to keep things even. We go back and forth until the bottle is finished, and Fran seems disappointed when it is. I can feel his energy, his desire to say something important, and I do not want to be the person who messes this up. I tap my nails on the silver tabletop in rhythm, and let my mind focus on that. It is strange that sometimes I feel so impatient, wishing I could urge people to just hurry up and say what they want to say, or do what they need to do, and other times I cannot keep up with the pace of life at all.
I reach my hand out, about to touch his hair, when there is auditory commotion and I can gather Santa has arrived on stage to give out presents to the children. I wonder if twenty-one is too old to be included. Children are screaming and flocking in that direction, necklaces illuminated to make them all look like aliens or floating heads.
‘Christmas is so weird,’ he says, finally.
‘What do you mean? It’s the best time of year,’ I argue, both in jest and in truth.
‘Everyone acts so unlike themselves.’
‘I suppose. I think Christmas would be better without the people.’
He cracks his first smile of the night. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The tree and the food and the music and the lights. No social obligations, just the fun parts, the beautiful parts,’ I reply.
‘Now that would be weird.’
‘Weird isn’t bad, though.’
I say this in reference to our conversation, but Fran looks up at me with eyes that tell me he has interpreted it as a sales pitch for myself. He still looks for meaning where I do not mean for it to exist, positioning himself as more of an expert on my life than I am as the person living it. And I hate that: people thinking they know me. No one else should get to dictate the parameters of my personhood, especially as I am struggling to find them myself. It is not something I should feel about Fran, who does in fact know me, but I feel it anyway.
‘I’m not really seeing anyone, you know,’ he says, guilt in his tone.
‘What? Like not at all, or not officially yet?’ I ask.
‘I’ve been talking to a few people since I moved back, but yeah, not really at all.’
I look at his face, his sheepish expression, and I am confused. Who is this person, lying, when he has only ever offered me truth? That was something I thought I could rely on. It is supposed to be a loadbearing wall. Perhaps he is finding a new version of himself as well. I try not to flash back to my body pressed against Levi, my perceived evening of the score now throwing the scales further out of whack.
‘Why did you say it then? To impress me? To upset me?’
‘I don’t know. Not to upset you. To keep some distance between us, I guess.’
I take some time to think about what that might mean. He wants distance, but sharing his minor deceit almost immediately does not align with that statement.
‘It’s really good to see you again,’ he says, moving closer, further indicating his desire for a lack of space between us.
‘We saw each other yesterday,’ I reply.
‘You know what I mean.’
And I am left to again figure out the meaning behind what he says. It has been this way for a long time. Fran expects me to forecast veiled emotions; I wish for him to say things as they are. He is the astrologer to my astronomer, the only real similarity being our shared interest in the stars. There is a way to take us there. We have a precedent; we can fast-track to understanding. Leaning forward, eyes closed, I travel most of the way but give him space to decide if he would like to join me. Fran’s lips touch mine, and I wonder how I have survived this long without them. They are warm and soft, and he smells like peppermint. If a person ever wanted to know how to smell just right, I would send them to Fran for tips. He lets out an audible sigh, the last remaining resistance, and leans further into me. My whole body aches to press itself against his. Our rhythm is there without needing to force it, his tongue finding mine. His hand on my cheek, our legs touching only lightly. It has been a long time since I felt this in my own body, and so thrilled to be here. Perhaps I partly have the Prosecco to thank for that, too, but it feels entirely Fran’s doing. I place my hands in his hair, and resist the urge to pull. It is little wonder people make poor choices about sex, when attraction like this feels so out of control. I lean into him, muscle memory. Bliss is momentary, and I barely taste it before it is pulled away.
‘I can’t,’ he says.
