Under repair

There were hits and misses, trying to make things right between Gar and me. It had been a year since we broke things off, leaving so much unsaid, and we were out of practice. It almost ended after our first attempt. Watching a movie at my place, we found ourselves unsure of our boundaries, unsure of how quickly to seek out our limits. Nothing fit quite right, leaving us stiff and awkward.

I wondered – as I had throughout our year off – if the intimacy we’d shared had been real. The whole thing had left me shaken and I still wasn’t convinced, even after Gar’s email, that it hadn’t all been in my head.

But, slowly, we found our way around. Against the postured austerity of the MPO, we recovered some of our daring – taking the piss out of the over-animated conductor, instigating false starts in applause between movements, stifling our laughs as someone in the row behind snored himself awake. And afterwards, settling down to Planet Terror – more our style – with far less hesitation than before.

Still, there were oscillations. All my talking before seemed to have been ineffectual at best, and counter-productive at worst. And now, I was at a loss. There was the residual jealousy too. Gar told me one night he was heading off early from Baroque for a dinner. That familiar twinge, the tightening in my gut. We’d cancelled the night before because he said it was late, and he was tired. When would it be my turn again?

I encountered the jealousy, raw, so I’d know it for what it was, and how I’d fare without support; not in theory, but with the damn creature digging its teeth deep into my guts. Maybe it was all part of some masochistic thought experiment, but it seemed like it would get me closer to knowing why.

But I wondered too if the reasoning would ever go away… if I could ever stay quietly with the jealousy. Not having to remind myself that it’s not his fault, that there’s no logical basis to the fear – that it’s just the surprise, being caught off guard.

But what would I do if not process? Maybe that’s just not me.

And maybe… it’s worth trying just once.

Then he posted some pictures from his birthday party, in silly poses with some other girls. And me looking god-awful in my one photo, and not even with him. This time, I silenced the rational voice, the suspicious voice and the angry voice – silenced all of them… and idled.

I waited for the deluge, the struggle. But nothing. Just a quiet, introspective, resigned calm, the fear and hurt seemingly suspended in formaldehyde. After a half hour of this levitation, I realized it was okay – realized I was okay, got bored, and stopped.

Then it was back to the reasoning. Creature of habit, so sue me.

Ultimately, I’m not sure I was right about anything – then or now. During the year of silence, there was only paranoia, suspicion and distrust to fill in the blanks. Wavering on what I was to him, everyone became a threat. And I can still see the scars.

But as I tucked myself into the space in his arms, Gar gave me a squeeze, bringing me back. And I remembered what a comforting presence he is, when I let my defenses down. Especially when he leans in towards my hair and breathes in deep. It helps to keep the past at bay. The silence recedes, and you can hear the tinkering, the rebuilding.