Contemplation by: Lyvia Alvarez, Ink on paper, 2015.
Queen Mood
by: Franklin Posh
I remember it because it was real, because it was the closest thing I ever knew to love, and because she didn’t want me to. I would walk her to class, every class. Some days, if I felt charming enough, I would try and convince her to go upstairs with me before she went inside; sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t. On the top floor, I would hold her hand and we’d look at the panoramic view of the neighborhood behind our school campus. I could buy you a house there, I’d say.
She turned to look at me, I’d need someone to live with me, she said. I don’t like being alone. Would you keep me company?
Of course, dummy. Otherwise, nothing would stop that house from becoming a cat shelter.
I was always pretty good at making her laugh; even after we agreed not to be physical and I did it anyway and she wasn’t able to stand the sight of me. She slit her eyes and I could feel the hate burning hot, like heat from the sun. Strange to think of all the ways the people you love could break your heart. But, I was lucky that she’d never be upset for long.
Some days, she’d skip class completely and take long walks with me. Nine times out of ten, we’d end up at the cafeteria and I’d fall for her as she ate french fries; her walnut-brown skin and deep, almond-shaped eyes; the gentle slope of her neck and the graceful hollows under her clavicles; her long, black hair with crimson tips that dangled like flames licking at the air. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
I would try and impress her with the things I’d learned about the campus from Jasmine. I know this place is kinda a depressing shithole, I’d say, but Jasmine told me that it’s one of the most environmentally friendly campuses in the U.S. They take this giant, sucking machine that sucks algae from the pond and converts it into energy. It doesn’t produce much, but it’s supposed to be innovative technology.
She was never quite impressed.
Funny thing is, I wasn’t impressed when I’d heard it, either. I wonder why I always had to keep my mouth moving, even when there was nothing to say. It’s like I couldn’t let a silence sit in between us. I was afraid if it was silent for too long she’d realize who I was: insecure, full of apologies, afraid to be forgotten.
Other days, I didn’t talk much and it would make her so upset with me. You’re always asking for my time and when I give it to you you don’t take advantage of it, she’d say. You have problems, dude.
When I sensed she was upset, I wasn’t afraid to be apologetic. I really was invested in her happiness, and I’d make myself sound foolish apologizing for things I couldn’t control: I’m sorry your sister can’t have a baby, mama. If I were God, I would put a hundred babies in her stomach. I wanted to be her hero. It’s a weird thing to want something so badly that you forget you’re human. You’d be surprised about the things you start punishing yourself for.
Before her, I’d never been fully aware of another person’s body; how infinitely beautiful and fragile she was; how perfectly she fit into the circle of my arms. Some days she would let me use my hands on her. I would stain her neck with kisses and tell her that I loved her. She was dirty because of me.
Some nights she’d wake up with a nasty feeling, like someone had a hand inside her stomach and was twisting her intestines. Am I going to hell? she asked, tears in her eyes. I just stared at the floor. I had no answers.
I spent time forgetting everything I knew, memorizing the outline of her body. Her warnings washed against me and dissolved into nothing, like the shoreline of a lake. We felt too good. We didn’t want to stop. My grandma tells me that’s a sign you have a problem. She also tells me that a closer relationship with God will fix anything. But why, Grandma?, I’d ask.
Because, mijo, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. These days we talk less and less. I’m reluctant to ask for advice anymore. I’m starting to suspect we’ll never have another real conversation.
Sometimes I’d be sitting down next to her while she looked out into the distance. With her and school and my horrible understanding of balancing time, I didn’t get much sleep. Plenty of days I didn’t have the energy to stand. As I’d look up at her, she’d place her hands over different parts of my face. The way she looked at me, if felt like she was trying to find a combination she wasn’t attracted to: nose-eye, ears-mouth, nose-mouth. Maybe she was admiring my face in portions, appreciating it more than I ever could. When she finally removed both hands, she’d look at me and smile. In moments like that, it felt like love.
When the year was winding down and she wasn’t talking about next year, I knew it was over. In the end, it sounded a lot like a reality tv show. I told her I loved her and she said I didn’t understand what love was. I was ashamed of how pulpy we’d gotten; I felt we were better than that.
Nothing could have prepared me for the end. I counted down the days. I wrote daily letters. I tried to say everything I ever needed to say. I guess I got too use to it being in the future, too use to Not Today. Soon, yes. But not today.
By the very end, she was already erasing me from her memory. Delete all the pictures you have of me and all our messages, she said. I don’t want you remembering my ass.
On the last day, she wouldn’t leave until she watched me delete the pictures and videos from my phone. I don’t blame her for not trusting me, I probably wouldn’t have deleted them if she wasn’t standing right there. She kissed me for the first time on the cheek and I knew it was her way of saying that she loved me back. She never said the words, though, and I got tired of asking. I walked her to her car and watched her drive out of the parking lot. I never talked to her again.