variations on a theme by kaufman

"All is ephemeral, both what remembers and what is remembered"
-- Marcus Aurelius

I felt like the luckiest guy in the world to be able to be there, sitting across the table from her. Having pancakes in the middle of the afternoon of all things. I wanted to save that moment. Right there. Right then. I wanted to capture the essence of it, to put a label on it and file it away for the next time I needed it. I wanted to remember each feeling, each thought, each and every detail. I wanted to save whatever the hell it was that made me feel so good. I wanted to fold the comfort I felt upon itself and delicately set it aside so I could wrap myself in its warmth the next time I faltered.

Our plates arrived under piles of starch and sugar and other manifestations of pure goodness. Magnificence. Her eyes, nose, mouth were all a titter with the barrage of sensations. Her face glowed as she prodded the various concoctions in anticipation. She shot me an excited smile with raised eyebrows that said, "Do you see this? Doesn't it look great?" She looked back down and wrinkled her mouth as she concerned herself with how best to begin. Her delicate features furrowed as she considered how much and how quickly she could shovel food into her mouth while maintaining a level of daintiness.

She looks up at me. "Is this about me?"

"No. Sorry."

I'm not sure if she believes me. She pouts in mock disappointment. She is very pretty. She has these incredible eyes I keep getting lost in. Occasionally, I forget to keep my mouth closed when I look at her. "It's good. I like it so far. You're such a good writer."

"Not really. I'm stuck." I just saw Adaptation. Kaufmann got stuck. Then, he wrote about being stuck. That was pretty cool. I could be cool. But, I remember that annoying kid in junior high who wrote an essay about how he had nothing to write about and thought he was novel and clever until his teacher failed him as an object lesson to the other kids who were thinking about trying to be novel and clever. That kid was not cool. I don't want to be that kid again.

"Well, did this actually happen? You could write about how it actually happened."

"Not really. I have all these false starts and random snippets leading in directions I don't want to take it. Here's a piece I think I want to use, but I'm not sure." She looks down at the laptop. I try not to stare at her neck. I can never concentrate all that well when she puts her hair up. She is very pretty. I stare at my coffee instead. I take a sip and end up staring at her lips. Her mouth is slightly opened as she reads.

I was smiling like an idiot. There was something about the way she optimistically poked at her food. Something about seeing her enjoy herself. I want to say this something was "cute", but "cute" doesn't make me want to climb across the table to kiss her. "Cute" doesn't saturate me in pleasant memories. Lying in bed together on lazy Saturday afternoons. Walking down a quiet street. Her standing very close to me for a moment before kissing my neck.

"This is nice," she says without looking up. I chuckle. She smells good. What is it? Lotion? Perfume? It's intoxicating. My mind struggles for something witty to say.

"Yeah." Idiot. My mind slaps witty-things-to-say neuron for being incompetent. The neuron blames the perfume.

I felt pained. Some dull indescribable ache that for so long, I couldn't understand. The sight was a reminder of what no longer was and what no longer could be. The pain was the longing I felt for those days, the days of such simple contentment. Pancakes in the middle of an afternoon. That moment came so easily. Why did we live with such strained irritation? Hesitation. Distraction. Our moments reeked of effort. What had happened?

"What?" she asked. I had barely touched my food.

"What what?" I replied. This was how we now solved our problems; staring contests. Seemingly casual jousting over a torrent of emotions. I couldn't flinch first. I couldn't be the one to say "I need you. I love having you in my life" because if she didn't feel the same way, it would just be...

"No really, what?" She lowered her fork and knife as she looked at me with increasing interest. I may have been holding my breath. Her brow furrowed just slightly and she cocked her head to one side in an attempt to read the thoughts that are thrashing about in my mind. I felt my thoughts starting to etch themselves into my forehead. She still wasn't sure whether she should be concerned or amused, but this was a staring contest I was going to lose if I didn't come up with something quickly.

"I..." want to tell you that you're beautiful. am enjoying myself. need you. wish things worked out. am thrilled to be here with you. wish I bought roses for you today. don't know what to say. "... have something stuck in my teeth."

She touches her lips. "Aw. That's kinda sad," she says. She sits for a moment still looking at the screen. Thoughtful. Re-reading passages. She's very pretty. We're sitting very close together. Every breath I take is filled with her scent. What voodoo is this? I can't think straight to save my life. Is it my turn to speak? She says, "It's good though. How does it end?"

"I don't know yet. I have a few ideas..."-- none of which are coming to mind at the moment. I'm scrounging about for words. My mind is furiously slapping neurons. This feels familiar. She looks at me again. I am lost again. She bites her lower lip and smiles. Our faces are very close together.

"What?" she asks again.

Tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel. Tell me something has lingered. Tell me you've moved on. Tell me you miss getting pancakes too. Tell me something. Anything. "Nothing."