We Flatter Ourselves

It displeased her, as genial it would have been, that Aimee Morin--aged twenty-six and one quarter--could not get the wonder of her boyfriend. His wonder? What in the world could that mean? That’s what he had asked, too, on the days she complained about it. Well, she’d say, if I explain, my ardent ambitions will disintegrate, and everything we do will be artificial. He wouldn’t comprehend it still, but he’d make her feel better: I’ll take us out tonight. My treat.

That was all well with her. Here she was now, alight from the train down Chestnut Street, walking past Kingsley Drive at four in the afternoon after a day of studying iris flowers, content had she been with what she had found, content she’d hope to be tonight. Where would they eat? Would he pay? The thought of him offering to pay delighted her like a spark of electricity in her veins--how handsome of a thought! Eccentric raptures were part of her nature.

On clear days when Aimee had no work she would bring her canvas outside, on a patio, painting the things she heard in her music--earbuds attached to her phone in her pocket--and sometimes she’d bring a notebook and write a story that would come into her head unhesitatingly--from her music as well, of course. On windy, snowy, or rainy days--all of which is often in a city like Toronto--she’d do the same things inside her homely, modern apartment on the sixth floor. On free mornings when she’d master the art of sipping hot coffee before it got too cold, she’d walk out of the cafe, smiling at strangers until she’d reach Juniper Way. The street was a language that only she was fluent in--all who walked by would hear gibberish, but only she would hear the memory, four years ago when she was twenty-two, of Roman syphoning her heartbeat with vigorous shoves to her chest, his mouth trying to breathe life into hers. In her deep sleep, they had been passionate kisses from a royal prince, and she was in a grassy field, younger, under the shade of a tree. When she woke up she saw no difference in her future-boyfriend’s face--or her surroundings, for that matter. He was saying something about a coma--and her having come around--but still she saw a handsome swain, still she saw a bristling meadow. The people passing by eyeing them were the blades of grass swaying in the wind. This was the first time they met. I’m a paramedic, I gave you CPR, he said. You’re okay. Hey, wake up. You’re okay.

Since then, Juniper Way has had that effect on her. An acquisition of the propriety of love. All the love that had come out of this place! From that one incident! Oh, she’d reminisce and exhale a breath of wonder and then would have a profound love for her life! At the expense of this surge of emotion would she immediately want to accost her boyfriend, in a loving manner of course, and such powerful memories would make her think about him and wonder how fast he’d be done his work so that they could have dinner together, and this would entertain her mind every passing moment until the clock in her apartment aligned with the one in her reverie.

If you were to, for at least one day, ever attempt to witness a moment when such a vivacious woman was without her music in her ears, her phone playing her favourite love songs, you would be disappointed. She’d play them over and over again, rain or sun, sun or moon. One of them was so beautiful it made her cry. She listened like one bewitched. It was about two children who had fallen in love and did not know what it was, in their childhood states unaware of such a force that could pull two souls together in a lifetime like strings of twine. They would always get ice cream by the harbour on the boardwalk, just the two of them. Ever so delicately formulated were the images in her mind, of the waves crashing onto a broad expanse of wooden planks, boats lined up serenely, their sails folded, the boy holding the girl’s hand as she licked her vanilla cone, the smell of the sea and salt; and over the whole scene, like a glorious supernal twilight, were the graceful rays, mirrored figures, semi-dark shadows, coastal distances; and finally, far and near, the spirited lights enriching the waters like glitter, worthy of mouths agape a sunset of colour. It was a beautiful song. And, oh!--how young love is wasted on those little ones who do not have the comprehension to perceive such a force beyond their years. The song mentioned that the boy and girl called each other nicknames. When she got home that day she researched harbours, right before Roman arrived after work.

“Hey, Rom. How was work today?”

“Quite busy, actually. I’m tired, can we actually move our dinner date to tomorrow?”

“That’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine, Rom. Anyway, I’ve been thinking…”

“What’s that name? You’ve never called me that before.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that. You know what? Never mind. You were saying?”

“I’ve found this neat place called Tobermory, up north. It has this boat harbour by the lake, some nice houses, an all-you-can-eat fish and chips place, shipwrecks in shallow waters you can scuba dive and kayak around, all that fun and more. What do you say? We elope there for a day or two?”

“Elope? That’s funny. Sure, I’ll drive. What do you want to do there?”

“Get some ice cream and take a stroll down the boardwalk, holding hands.”

“Oh, okay. You listed all those things you can do there and… all you want is to get ice cream?”

“Yes. Well, I’m not opposed to those other activities too.”

Finding time off work for the both of them was a troublesome mess, but steadily the day approached their calendars. On the day they drove there to see Tobermory’s lakeside splendour, Roman received from destiny a painful gout in his right foot. They were too far already to return, so Aimee switched places with her boyfriend at the wheel and they continued on. For such an indispensable trip the length was extended--their first two days there, they couldn’t do much.

“How is your foot? Can we go out?”

“Still hurts. Might be better tomorrow.”

“Can we get the ice cream tomorrow?”

“What’s wrong with you? Why do you want the ice cream so much? It can wait.”

“Please, it’s important to me. We’re not here for long.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

The next day they kayaked and ate good food and soon it was turning dark and Roman was tired. She pestered once more about the ice cream.

“Sunset’s soon. We have to go now.”

“Here, I’ll give you money. I’m going back to our room.”

“What? No. You have to go with me.”

“Why? I’m sleepy. You can get the ice cream now if you really want it. Why do you look mad?”

“We’ll get it tomorrow.”

“By some chance my gout goes away.”

“Never mind, Roman. It’s ruined. It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

He frowned.

“What happened to ‘Rom’?”

They returned home without getting the ice cream. On the car ride back her mood was suspended between a lovingly pragmatic one--Here, I’ll get this man to take our picture!--and arrogantly distasteful--What? Why are you mad at me Aimee? They arrived home soon after dusk.

At her apartment, Roman had opened her fridge, said she needed more food and didn’t want her to get hungry, that he’d come tomorrow and they’d go to the grocery store together. She was listening to a song at the time about a man picking up his kids from school and loving his wife so much, describing life as beautiful--so romantic!--and suddenly she had this deep pounding in her chest, a shortness of breath, and a rush of adrenaline. He was here, right now, at her place, the time on the clock said midnight had not yet arrived, the eve was as young as the infant she yearned for, her thoughts of a possible future driving her insane, hopefully not all for naught--she longed to do something so reckless yet so romantic! An eight-seated van, a solar system crib mobile, counting from one to ten, name this animal (“Good job!”), scolding their stupid decisions of a beloved at their coming-of-age, sobbing with him when they’d depart their abode, the abode where they cried, laughed, turned irate, loved, hated, pleased, hurt, comforted each other in the best of times, in the worst of times--oh, it was all in front of her eyes, oh, it all hinged on this moment, oh, they could do it, the two of them, here and now, start it all here! So in a trance she went into her room and left the door open, having this already-conceived image of Roman watching her do so, silently getting the same idea, smelling the tenderness, following her in, seeing her on the bed biting her lip--but when she turned to see him in actuality, he was gone, already had closed the door and locked it with a click behind him, leaving her in her apartment alone. She thought she heard a baby’s wailing in the room next door but it was gone, as if she had only imagined it.

She couldn’t sleep well that night. The sword of her emotion cut a deep gash in her flesh.

She studied plants the next day at her job, thinking about what to paint the next time she had a chance, or which story to write. Continue botany, become a painter, writing--she had so many career options but not enough of a life. But she continued to do this, to think about her career options, in order to forget. It would take an amnesiac to forget the pain of the day before. But it had been impersonal to Roman--of course, he who left early, of whom knew nothing so--so she attempted to remain indifferent and would not even entertain the idea anymore, daresay find a man who would not run at such a blundering betiding so early in life, to beget a new soul. She would have scared him away until his heart pieces divorced! It was such a fleeting feeling, that one last night, dolour and nothing more, she told herself.

Her next favourite song was written by a man who made and sung it for his lover. She had researched the story. It led to them being together and eventually getting wed. The song had acoustic guitar and charming vocals, and its lyrics could only be described as… inviting! It was so invigorating that she was compelled, on their anniversary, to buy Roman a guitar.

“This is great, honey. But I don’t know a single thing about guitar. Or any instrument, really.”

“I want you to write a song for me!”

“That’s an interesting thought. Me learning guitar. I’d love to please you, but you know how busy I am with work. We get calls every day. Will you help me learn?”

“Me? I’m not… supposed to. It’s supposed to be all you.”

“Why?”

She frowned. 

“Never mind. I’ll return the gift if you don’t like it.”

He was bound for home next, while her heart was bound by a sombre ache. She felt as if the line between them was under a massive pair of scissors, about to sever their connection. In the morning she decided it was vital that she’d revisit Juniper Way to rekindle a flame in her heart that was dying out. 

The road there was obnoxious because there were numerous construction workers--in their orange vests and hardhats--working on the concrete. Detours were set up, streets were fenced, car horns were honked. When she got to Juniper Way it was like all the rest. She couldn’t park anywhere because of all the construction, and no people were allowed to walk through it. She rolled down her car window when she got close to one of the workers.

“Is this street closed?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“When will it be open?”

“I don’t know. It’ll take a while. We’ve just started.”

She drove off. Her hands were shaking, and her car radio continued playing her favourite love songs. She heard a lyric about going back to the place two lovers first met. When she got home she deleted her playlist.

#

When the days were bleak she continued to listen to music. Old habits were old habits. When there was a thunderstorm and she’d look out the window of her apartment or when Roman was so busy he had no time to see her, she would do this. On one such occasion when both events happened like two inconspicuous lovers meeting up in an affair, solitarily, and with great inspiration from song as usual, she wrote of a happy story using her and Roman as the main characters. When she finished she decided she would let him read it later.

As it happened to be, Roman seldom had time to read her stories about the two of them or admire her art, and if he did so, he did so apace, without a concern about the level she had achieved, or the strokes she employed, or the literary techniques she utilized to display their magnificent affection, but always one of: So where are we eating dinner?--Dinner? Dinner! How ridiculous, how impudent in the name of her effort and devotion! Was he blind to see, herself, baring her heart out in front of him, practically handing it to him on a silver platter? For him to take and eat and consume her love?

Other times he would say he was too busy with work to fully ingest, the words of his, “her masterpieces.” Yet did this not forsake the masterpiece that was their relationship? Often when this would happen she would recall that he had always done this ever since they were young, and even when they had dated in high school. The stories of him courting her--legendary, in her eyes! Tumbled, of course, when he got his first job, when he focused on his driving school (and said it was for her, so he could drive them around), and when all his attention was driven away, like the car he bought senior year, from her and into matters of practicality. This was the source of his indifference to her art. Gone were the days--hold on, she’s trying to remember the details--of their childhood when they’d keep each other company at the playground swings, back and forth, one high when the other was low, one looking at the other normally while the other saw the world upside-down, six feet up, one realm over. Yes, the playground, near their houses--their houses of which were side by side--they were next-door neighbours since the first time they called their fathers “Da-da,” and she had sworn they’d be so in the next life as well. That playground was the first time that they met.

As of now, she was listening to a song about a couple who, after both being tired of life, gathered all the money they could and went on a spontaneous, unplanned road trip across the States. By Chicago they had already fallen in love more than ever before, and despite only being together for two months, they impulsively got married in a random barn in Kansas. The words of the song stayed with her like an impossibly tantalizing seduction on her heart for weeks--she must have replayed it a million times. Each time was as amazing as the last, and finally, on the one day she was listening to it with Roman present with her in her room, she knew she had to convince him.

“A random road trip across the States?”

“It’ll be fun and romantic! I’m planning the route now, we’re going through Kansas.”

“Planning? Thought you said this wouldn’t be planned.”

“Oh. Well, you’re right. But we’ll probably end up going through there.”

“What do you want to see there? All they have are farms, don’t they?”

“They sure do.”

“That’s what you want to see? Cows?”

“Stop it! Just stop it! Do you want to do this or not?”

“I’m not mocking you or anything. I’m simply asking you. Please don’t get angry, Aimee.”

“I can’t take this anymore. Nothing I want is happening, no matter how hard I try!”

“Calm down, Aimee. I’ll do the road trip. I promise.”

“You can’t say that--it has to just happen spontaneously, because of love! You’ve always been so practical in our relationship, always prioritizing your work and career! You’ve done this since high school!”

“High school? We didn’t know each other in high school. We met on Juniper Way, when you were unconscious.”

“Now you’re gaslighting me! We met at the playground by our houses as children!”

“We’ll do the road trip, I promise. We’ll get ice cream. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know what I want!”

“Listen, Aimee, it looks like you’re not in a good mood right now. And I’m not helping. I’m going to leave you for now. I’ll be back tomorrow, and then we can plan this road trip, okay? This is not a break between us, I still love you. I’ll be going now. Will you be okay?”

No response.

“Will you be okay?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

When he left, the closing of her room door was a gunshot to her ears. She went to her bed and folded her knees in her arms, listening to her music. After a little while, she sniffled and tears began rolling down her eyes. Her ponytailed hair was a mess. Her eyes were underwater. The song hit its chorus and the tears fell faster. Then, after hearing enough, she got up, took her earbuds out, and violently threw the phone at the wall as hard as she could. The screen cracked and dropped to the floor. As her phone continued playing a romantic love ballad, she resumed her position holding her knees, this time her face in them, sobbing uncontrollably.

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