#vingnette

elizabethwynnemarshall

McClellanville Historic District

Early morning, I waited for you to wake up. I brewed two cups of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, holding the warm mug in my hands, poised at my lips. There wasn’t a single noise at the time, just my own breathing to fill the silence as the sun began to fill the room. The first rustle of sheets, the deep inhale, and finally the creaking of the wooden post bed we had inherited from your grandmother’s antiques. My eyes slid shut, and I waited.

 Something needs to be said for those brief moments of collection, for the space between time and the person waiting on it. I listened as water rushed from the faucet, as you grabbed for the hand towel to the right, and I waited. The coffee was beginning to saturate the air, and my lips avidly sought the heat as it rolled off into winding tendrils of steam. When you finally stepped from the dimly lit hall and into the kitchen I opened my eyes and I smiled.

 “Good Morning.”

 “Mmm…morning…” Your lips stretched into a wide yawn as you scratched the back of your head.

 “I made you some coffee,” my head nodded towards the steaming mug sitting on the counter with cream waiting to be poured. Everyone and thing plays this game. You smiled at me gratefully, and poured the coffee the way you always drink it, with just a little cream stirred three times. The chair groaned as you pulled it back, as though it too was just waking up.

 “You’re up early,” you said, and I nodded my head, sipping my own coffee before I placed it down on the table.

 “I woke up and just couldn’t go back to bed,” I said softly, my fingers played with the edges of the handle, dancing on the lip of the cup. We both sat in comfortable silence, drinking our coffee as time seemed to fall further away, disappearing with the receding shadows or perhaps being swallowed by daylight.

 “I need to go to the store today,” you said, “there’s hardly anything in the fridge.”

 There’s this pause and I lick my lips, swallow thickly and clear my throat. Your eyes flicker back towards me and before I think I know what I’m saying the words have already leapt from the ledge of my lips.

 “I can go,” I said, “besides it’ll give me a reason to get out of the house.”

 You pause, eyes daring to look into my own and an unsure smile makes its way to your face. I can tell that you aren’t sure of my decision and to be absolutely honest neither am I.

 “I mean…if you want to, that would be awesome. I can even give you the list I wrote down yesterday so…”

 I clear my throat which is beginning to feel dry, soothing it with warm coffee and I smile once more because that seems to reassure you more than anything, “That would be good, that way I’ll know exactly what you need to cook dinner.”

 You nod and rise from the chair, walking over to the refrigerator where you have so conveniently pinned the grocery list.  You look back at me and down at the list and your eyes seem to be searching for an answer, but you won’t find one, because I’m not even sure there is one. The piece of paper is slid in front and I view it slowly, eyes roving over each item. Mentally, I write each letter, see the word in my mind and silently form them on my lips, and a version of my voice echoes it inside the dome of my skull.

 Eggs Cereal Milk Spinach Tomatoes Turkey Cheese Bread

 I hear your feet as they shuffle away and as you turn on the shower. I read the list over and over again, drinking my coffee till the mug is empty and then I fill it again. I wait till you step back into the kitchen your sleep shorts replaced with your business suit and your coffee clinking against other dishes, as it is set into the sink. I walk up and reach for your tie, which is crooked, and laugh internally because no matter how old we get you never can learn how to make a proper tie.

 The warmth of your palms rest on my hips and you pulled me close enough to smell the scent of your cologne in gentle wafts. Such a thing is silly to say, but I felt safe, like I could melt into that smell and never be bothered to wake up again.

 “If you change your mind, just call me,” You said softly, “okay?”

 My lips part to speak, but I cannot reassure you with words so instead I nod my head once. I wish that I could tell you that I won’t need your help that I can go to the grocery store and come home and be the normal girlfriend you once had, but that all seems stupid to say aloud and not normal, so I don’t.

 The gentle press of your lips against my forehead makes my body sink into your own and I hadn’t even noticed it but I had curled my fingers into the fabric of your suite like a child who has refused to let go of their baby blanket.  A deep breath fills your chest and each beat of your heart has calmed the rising anxiety beginning to bubble inside my own. Down it goes and the air in my head begins to thin.

When we pull apart I have to fight not to pull you back. I curl my fingers around the points of my elbow, sinking my fingers in and grounding myself into the wooden floor. I won’t move, can’t move till I see you turn and disappear through the front door. The hot summer air bursts through and I feel as though it has been years since I breathed it last. I staggered backwards, my back colliding with the wall and slowly sank to the ground. My heart threatened to break free and even though I gripped it through my shirt it struggled.

 Deep breaths, stiches of pain, and finally a kind of release that still feels like weights slowly pulling me down.  Why couldn’t I just be normal again?

 It takes me too long to pull my body from the ground and inch myself into the bedroom. The closet is a space I don’t recognize anymore with articles of clothing that no longer seem to suit me and shoes that look uncomfortable, even though memory tells me I have only ever owned comfortable shoes. I sink my fingers into the sleeve of your sweater, the one I have taken to sleeping in and longingly wish to keep it on, to keep that inexplicable feeling of safety that comes with it. Once though, I twirled in front of a mirror and smiled, and that echo of strength makes me ache, makes me want to try on every single piece I own till something resonates and I am me again. 

 I stand in front of the mirror, trying to decide what to wear. Stupid as it is, this means more to me than it means to some. In this moment, I feel like a soldier donning his armor. I need to feel safe and I want to feel stronger than I am…and if clothes provide that false sense of bravado then so be it. It is more than I thought I would have. My mother used to tell me make up is a woman’s war paint, and though men try to stifle it with their ideals of beauty it will always be a weapon in a woman’s arsenal. It is how we manifest power from vulnerability, how we choose to fight, she told me. So I press that lipstick to my lips and paint them rouge, as if to say “Here I am. I am still here.”

 The consequence of this doesn’t really matter, because in this moment I feel braver than I have in months. I feel stronger than the girl who sits in the middle of her bed waiting for the old her to come back around, pull herself from the internal grave, and resurrect that fearlessness—that stupid and ignorant concept of invincibility, because how lucky was I when I had it?

 In this strange limbo of identity crisis and the past, I see glimpses of the woman I used to be. She is like of flickers of light, a spark from a dying fire—I have missed her. I still miss her, but I am not her anymore. I am someone different; someone jaded and scarred, but no less than her. Recognize who it is you have become and accept that changes have occurred, but that these changes are not your definition.

 That’s what my therapist tells to remember in these moments that I am staring and trying to understand the stranger in my mirror.  

 “You can do this. You have to do this.”

 I command myself. Somehow it makes it seem like something I can’t back out of. Now that the words have been put into the world, surely they will drag me if I do not walk of my own accord. Today, I will take back a piece of my freedom. I have to…

 It is twenty minutes past noon. I have stared at the front door for over an hour unable to put one foot in front of the other. I tried to stretch my hand out to the knob, but it trembled and fell limp at my side. My body and mind seem to be at opposite ends, fighting to understand, but it’s like they speak two different languages and I have forgotten how to translate fear into courage.  The list of groceries is neatly folded and sitting in the front pocket of my purse. I tell myself to pull it out, read it again because I suddenly can’t remember a single thing you wrote down and I do try, but for the life of me I can only think of tides and crumbling sandcastles.

 I pull my cell out of my purse and speed dial you.

 “Hello?”

 I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out, and I’m ashamed that I had to call.  Such a terribly acrid thing, shame is. It coils inside my throat like bile and shakily I press my hand to my lips afraid that I might just throw up coffee and acid.  

 There’s this pause and I can see that look on your face that is caught somewhere between understanding and disappointment.

“How do I eat?” Caleb blurted out. At Nathan’s knitted brow he went on. “Digestive systems are complicated and...” He fumbled for the word. “messy. If I can just recharge it makes no sense for me to have one; or to consume food for that matter.” Unless it’s out of some sort of obligation to social norms, which you obviously don’t have. “But I still have memories of eating while I’ve been here.”

“You never actually eat.” Nathan sat back in his chair. “Do you remember that scene in the Matrix, the whole ‘did you ever have a dream you were so sure was real?’ scene?” Caleb stared at him with a confused look. “No? How did I forget that?” He chuckled. “How sidetracked did I get that I gave you freaking Oppenheimer but not the Matrix?”

Caleb made a ‘move on’ gesture. “Can we get back to the question?”

“Right, eating. So the goal of virtual reality is immersion; convincing the user that the virtual world is as real as the actual world. Now this is difficult because humans have a pretty good idea what the real world is like.” Nathan held up a hand when Caleb opened his mouth to interject. “I’m getting there.

“But a robot who hasn’t seen the ‘real world’ doesn’t have anything to compare a VR experience to. Basically, if you’re operating in an information vacuum you’re not going to be able to tell what’s ‘true’ or ‘false.’” He put quotes around the last words. “Does this make any sense to you?”

“You gave me a virtual reality program that simulated eating and activated it at appropriate times.” Caleb deadpanned. It was just something else to add to the list of ‘things that weren’t real.’

“Exactly. You see, this is why you’re useful. You know how to say things. Short but sweet.”