the stranger in the courtroom wasn't you

What could invoke more ache than the sublime beauty of a love doomed to fail? now, i gather its ashes. my hands are grey, my fingers scorched.

There’s an ocean between the you I met in the courtroom, and the you inside my head. For practical purposes I have to deal with the you in the court room (which I do reasonably well, we agree, don’t we?). For everything else, I am concerned only with the one inside my head. This you is a product of my imagination, I understand, but is a still refuge. The you that my mind conjures up suddenly out of a novel, or a poem. The you who teleport through Plath’s rage and Allende’s lines (not that I like her one bit, but for a few lines that bring you to me). So I imagine, your him to my her, this you :

Trying times, and numerous affairs washed his mouth with soap many times, enough to stop him calling out for me. But not enough to make him stop loving me with that terrible, possessive, absolute love that solitary children give. And she, she returned his love with an affection free of jealousy or anxiety. He could not imagine life without her, without her incessant chatter, her curiosity, her childish caresses, and the blind admiration for him, which her eyes spoke of. With her, he felt strong, protective, and wise, because that was how she saw him. Everything made him jealous. He suffered if she paid attention, even if for an instant, to anybody else, if she made a move without consulting him, if she kept a secret from him. He needed to share with her his most intimate thoughts, fears, and desires, to dominate her and at the same time serve her with total abnegation. The few years that separated them in age were not noticeable. She seemed older than she was, and he younger; she intended to swallow the world and he lived crushed by reality. He lamented in advance the mishaps that could separate them, but she was still too young at heart to imagine a future.

Both understood instinctively that their complicity was forbidden; it was made of crystal, transparent and fragile, and had to be defended with eternal pretence from the rest of the world.

My you live inside my head. And the you in the courtroom, i do not recognize.

A girl thinks

What did he mean when he put an arm around me? What was he thinking when he hugged me so close? Did it mean anything to him? When he snuggled close, I so hope he didn't hear my exaggerated heart beats.

Is this how boy meets girl in cities? The first evening together, does it bring currents without words? Do city boys hug girls the first time they meet alone? Do they tell them that they smell nice? Do they crinkle nose at aromas of food wafting up from the neighbour's kitchen and say they would rather smell your hair? And snuggle closer?

Is there anything to all this at all? He didn't after all say that my smile dazzles him. Or that I'm sweeter than the Swiss chocolate I shared with him. He did not even try to make me talk. And the whole while I was so busy thinking his thoughts that I forgot to think any of my own. Sigh.

And when we walked back, he oh-so-casually put his arm around my shoulders again. And really hugged me when we said goodnight. The real hug says he is sincere, but it doesn't say anything about he liking me, or does it?

When he said that he is never casual about anything that he does, and stressed it a couple of times, was he trying to nudge me into hearing something else? When he spoke of his ambitions, and immediately added a question if I disliked ambitious men, was he trying to find out if I liked him?

Oh, but all this was yesterday. Is he thinking about yesterday today? Why hasn't he called or messaged yet? He smiles too much. That wide wide smile. I mustn't tell him how much I love that smile. Does he charm everyone this way, or am I the only one who is so affected?

He hasn't called yet. That means yesterday didn't mean much. Obviously, isn't it so? But how can that be? Won't that contradict the general outlook he projects? Or is it that I see only what I want to see? My mind can't be playing so many tricks, can it?

Maybe all he wanted was to see if I could be charmed at all. Worse, maybe he only wanted to sleep with me -- is that the worst? Won't that make him a stereotype? Can he be one? Yes. Maybe. Who else would put an arm around a girl the first evening together. That too with no tender words! He must have thought me a desperately lonely girl -- letting a man lie next to her, snuggle and hug close. Oh, what have I gone and done this time! Have I become a desperate lonely girl now? And he! He is so confident of his charm that he didn't think twice about hugging a girl the first evening together, without backing it up with tender words.
Was he seeing me when he looked at me and smiled? Or was I just a Rubenesque woman who seemed lost?

My worst fears have come true. Well, I have become what I was afraid of -- a lonely woman. He must've chuckled on his way home at the foolish girl who he held in his arms and chivalrously did not take advantage of. It is evening now, and he hasn't yet called. Oh, what a fool I made of myself! How will I ever face him again? What will I do now? When he sees me next, will he see the girl who lay quivering by his side under a brilliant moon?

I will not smile at him so much again. He will not know. I will pretend that nothing happened at all. Obviously, nothing happened to him. So why should anything at all happen to me? He is a city boy. And they say, city boys are debauched.

O. He is calling.