Eight Tuesdays
Written by Grace A. Keller
Artwork by Isis Mitchener
On the first Tuesday, we smoked marijuana out of a tobacco pipe and stayed up until sunrise. We were cautious in our interaction, and he was the kind of attractive that seemed untouchable. He worried about the area I lived in not being safe, and thought it best to head back to campus before the night was over. I invited him to stay the night- only for his safety, of course. I asked if he’d rather sleep with me or on the couch. He told me it was my decision. I affirmed it was his. My twin size bed was close quarters, and an innocent kiss quickly progressed to much more. “Wait— is this only because you’re high?” I asked. “No-- Is this only because you’re high?” “No,” I replied. “I just want to make sure I’m being seen as a whole person,” I explained, “not just a body”. “I see you as a whole person,” he assured, “I want you to be comfortable.” Minutes later, I was undressed. He scanned me head to toe. “You have such a beautiful body,” he said. This was a phrase I’d hear almost every time we slept together. I didn’t want to be looked at, though. I wanted to be seen.
On the first Wednesday, he seemed distant as I walked him to the front door. Maybe it was just exhaustion, maybe it was regret, maybe it was confusion. I guess I didn’t blame him. The kiss he gave me on his way out was quick and lazy, forced and obligatory.
On our second Tuesday, the topic of heart-rate came up. He told me it was simple. “Just find your pulse, and count the number of beats within a minute,” he said. I feigned confusion. Illuminated by orange lamplight, we sat with the excuse to touch each other hanging in the air between us. He set the timer for sixty seconds, and we pressed our pointer and middle fingers to the other’s neck. He was stunned by how fast my heart was pounding. I was embarrassed. “It’s always like that,” I lied. Truthfully, I think he was the only reason I had a pulse in the first place.
On our second Wednesday, I barely woke up when he left. I walked him through the apartment, from my room to the front door, and we kissed goodbye like family. I crawled back into bed, and fell asleep again within minutes.
On our third Tuesday together, I played a song from the movie Spirited Away for him. “It’s from the scene where the Chihiro- the main character, and Noface- the ghost-looking one- are on a train going across the sea to the sixth station,” I said, aware he was not listening. “It’s one of my favorite parts of any film,” I explained, “because it marks the entrance into another ‘other-world’, which is even more mysterious and fantastical than the first.” I watched as he lay there listening to the soft piano, eyes closed, ears flushed, and a soft smile across his lips. When he opened his eyes, I told him how impulsive I could be- how, when I fall, I fall hard. “My heart makes most of my decisions for me”, I said. “What do you mean?” He asked. “I tend to shoot myself straight into the sun,'' I said. He didn’t understand, and I didn’t care to elaborate. What I meant was that I expect fireplace warmth and end up in flames. If I was a candle, he was the sun. I melted completely in his presence.
On our third Wednesday together, he left lifesaver mints on my bedside table. This became part of the routine. In all my nervousness, they became my favorite food.
On the fourth Tuesday, we were apart. Imagining him with someone else drained the color from my face. He told me what he was feeling for me scared him, and he had to “throw the train off the tracks” somehow. I ignored the lazy apologies and imagined what it would be like to be loved by him.
On the fourth Wednesday, he sent me a message- “I gotta say, I missed the longer walk to campus this morning” he wrote.
By our fifth Tuesday together, I had convinced myself I didn’t care. If he wanted a cool girl, I could be one. I had already played the role plenty of times in the past- no need to memorize any new lines. I knew exactly what he wanted to hear. I hoped this would make him want me more. I hoped this would make me want him less. “I’ve been listening to the same song over and over again for weeks”, I told him. He insisted on hearing it. Watching him attempt to find the same things I found in the song felt like telling my last secret- this confidential matter being the crucial lyric: “Please hurry, leave me. I can’t breathe”.
By our fifth Wednesday together, I had stopped walking him to the door. He knew the way out, which way the locks turned, and how much I hated getting out of bed in the morning.
Our sixth Tuesday together was a Wednesday night. After getting just wine-drunk enough to convince ourselves we could dance, we headed to the Black Cat on 14th street. There, we swayed blissfully to bedroom pop on black and white tile, red and pink stage lights flooding the space we shared with so many strangers. The boundaries we set began to blur as his hands wrapped around my waist and my heartbeat quickened like it had the first night. There was no use attempting conversation. We clumsily interlocked fingers and pretended to waltz. When we finally pressed our lips together, the music seemed to come to a crescendo and the lyrics “Close your eyes and hear my secret, deep deep loving, hear my secret” felt as though they were written for us only. This was the night I loved him the most.
Our seventh Tuesday together was spent in his home city, seemingly worlds away from all the things I thought were keeping us apart. He invited me to come home with him after finals were over, and I felt I finally had clarity. “I realized how much I’m gonna miss you”, he said. I tried to play it off like I thought it casual, but I was thrilled. We listened to the same Stevie Wonder song for the entirety of that Tuesday. He sang the lyrics “I don’t wanna bore you with it, but I love you I love you I love you.” I was wrong to think he was doing more than just singing along. If he did in fact love me, it wasn’t in a way I understood.
On our seventh Wednesday together, he kissed me goodbye before I got on the bus. It felt like a kiss meant to appease me, when what I wanted was a kiss that uncovered some kind of impossible truth. “Saying bye feels wrong,” he told me. “It’s the end of an era,” I said.
On our last Tuesday together, he got blackout drunk and kissed me when the clock struck midnight. Just a day before, when I was finally starting to feel I could breathe without him, I impulsively bought a bus ticket to go up and see him for New Years eve. I wrote in my journal like a little girl writes in her diary about the boy she like-likes. I was embarrassed and empowered and excited all at once as I sat on the bus just 3 hours south of him. I thought of how I might say to him “I need to tell you something” or “I hope this isn’t weird but…” or “I love you” or “I am in love with you.” I was the most hopeless romantic. We partied all night and watched the fireworks over the river at midnight. I don’t remember what our kiss felt like- I was too intoxicated to overanalyze. I remember it being unexpected, for some reason. He took instagram pictures with his friends while I sat on latticed patio furniture, staring up at the neon painted sky. Afterwards, I sat outside in the freezing cold with his friends, who passed around a celebratory blunt until their fingertips turned blue. Inside, I found him lying at the top of the stairs and sat him up to force water down his throat. When everyone eventually passed out, we handed out pillows and blankets to his unconscious friends, found the last open bed in the house and collapsed into the mattress. He kissed me under the sheets before we fell asleep. I wonder how much he remembers. I wonder how much I’ve forgotten.
On our last Wednesday together, I smoked to ease my nausea. The drive to the bus station was tired and quiet. I don’t recall what was said- it was probably nothing important. I couldn’t bring myself to confess anything I was feeling. Goodbyes were hesitant and filled with indecision, and I got on the bus without looking behind me. I melted into my seat, and when the bus rolled out of the newly familiar station, I didn’t see his car in the lot anymore. I leaned against the window in my slightly high and hungover state, and fell asleep. I texted him when I arrived home safe. I don’t remember if he replied. I was foolish to think there were infinite Tuesdays.
I never thought Wednesday mornings could be this lonely.