He’s telling me a story, one he’s already shared with me in a letter, about a Dutch barber who nearly sliced part of his ear off, when it hits me that I am never, ever going to be rid of him.
No matter how close he leans in, nor how far he runs away.
He’s waving his hands around animatedly, a crooked, mischievous smile on his handsome face, and I can admit to myself that the story is far more interesting in person; or maybe I’m just dying to hear him. He hasn’t noticed that we’re the only two people left in this bar, that the bartender is giving us a dirty look, that his next flight leaves in four hours. I hope he forgets. I hate myself for it a little.
It’s a hopeless ordeal, all at once: I am never going to be rid of him; I am never going to have him; it is always, always going to hurt.
I know how the story ends, but I still feel the shards of it under my skin when the barber offers to buy him dinner to apologize for his blunder, when one licentious night turns into two passionate weeks followed by a tearful goodbye on a train, their paths never to cross again. “Most expensive haircut I’ve ever had,” he says, like I knew he would, but he’s looking at me—he’s always looking at me—and the shards twist, scratching like claws against the wall of a cage.
A hollow laugh leaves my chest, and I wonder if I can manufacture joy where there is none, something to fill the void of my expected casual response.
By the look on his face, my smile is as empty as it feels. He’s done speaking, so I should look elsewhere, perhaps gather my coat and begin a farewell, as I usually do. But I’m stuck here, ultimately.
I can’t look away from him.
I’m in the middle of a story I know I’ve told him at least once before when it hits me that I’m not getting on that flight in the morning.
I keep talking, automatic, because it’s what I do; because four drinks in, it’s the only thing I can think of to keep his eyes on me, so it is the only thing in the world worth doing.
“Most expensive haircut I’ve ever had,” I finish, because that’s how the story ends, in the version I tell him. To everyone else forced to listen to it, the barber ended things before they could truly start, because even he could tell my heart belonged to someone else.
He laughs, sort of. His face shifts in what it knows a smile looks like, but it feels like a resignation, like a sword tossed to the ground mid-duel.
For the first time in my life, I can’t think of a single thing to say. I panic, because I’m not ready for another goodbye, and I don’t know if I ever will be again. But he doesn’t move, and more importantly, he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
My fingers twitch on the sticky bartop, always so restless. So desperate to touch him, to hold his face between my palms, to swipe my thumbs over the delicate skin under his shining eyes, to know if he’s as warm as he looks. My throat closes up against everything I’m not saying. How am I supposed to breathe, with him looking at me like this? Like he’s begging me to say it?
Like he wants to hear it?
When he does break my gaze, it’s with his hands over his eyes, rubbing his face with exhaustion. I know it’s late—the bartender escaped to the back room ages ago, and I can hear The Smiths on a Bluetooth speaker, muffled by the swinging door.
He drops his hands to his lap. His eyes are a little red, a little watery; he looks devastated, and I want to hold him so badly I have to clench my hands into fists to prevent it.
When I remember how to speak, it’s to say my stupidest line yet: “Are you alright?”
It’s a much needed reminder, a slap in the face from the present.
“Are you alright?” Because he is alright—he has been and he will be, whether I’m around to see it or not. I’m the anomaly here.
I close my eyes against his concerned expression, alone with the relentless ache in my chest.
“M’fine,” I answer. “Sorry, I’m just…” I slide off my stool, feeling around for my coat. I catch his eyes once more, and my mind is bombarded with nameless, faceless men, each one holding something I’ll never have. “A sore loser.”
His brow furrows. His jaw works. But he says nothing, and I can’t stand it anymore, so I put on another half-arsed smile and squeeze his arm.
“Have a safe trip,” I say. “Don’t forget to write.” As always. I sling my coat over my arm and turn away from him, making my way to the door to go sleep off my shame.
“Don’t—” His chair scrapes on the floor, and I freeze. “Don’t walk away.”
I grit my teeth against the wave of emotion, some of it anger, all of it desire, turning my head to hear him better. I don’t need to see him to know he’s walking towards me, and I can’t explain why it hurts so damn much.
“I don’t want to watch you leave,” I mutter, “so what do you suggest?”
“Say it.” He’s right behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back, and my heart is frantic, where it sits bleeding on my sleeve. “Tell me to stay.”
“I won’t.” I feel him back away immediately, and I finally turn to face him, to chase him. “Because you want to leave, more than you want to stay, and I won’t survive it if it’s me you run away from—”
“I want you, you idiot,” he nearly yells, pulling his own hair in frustration, “more than anything.”
He blinks, like he’s confused, like I haven’t been the most obvious, besotted imbecile on the planet for years.
His eyes are wide and bright, his lips are parted in shock, and I reach for him like a finish line. He drops his coat and grabs my lapels, pulling me in, and when he finally kisses me, I know that I’ve been running to him this entire time. Maybe he realizes it, too, because I hear, “Stay,” I feel his lips move against mine, “stay,” I taste the exhale it produces, “please, please stay.”
“Yes,” I answer, holding on tight, his face secure between my hands.
