[RF] Are you the narrator or Alfie? Make your choice.
We're getting ready for our 27th date at Seb's (but who's counting?) and we've made reservations at 8. Mr. Always Right, of course, forgets to tell me about it until 3 hours before so now I'm panicking because I don't know if I have enough time to wash and blowdry my hair and cut my bangs.
He's wearing the checkered shirt I got him last Christmas. It's not something he'd pick for himself, but I needed to see him in something else other than oversized hoodies which he claims to be "super fashionable" these days.
Being around Alfie is like hugging sunshine. He can turn the dullest moments into a crappy joke, always singing a tune and managing to tell me weird biology facts I could've gone by without knowing. I told him once that I sometimes feel like I'm dating Jake Peralta from B99, but of course he doesn't get the reference. Claims he's not old, yet acts spiritually fifty two.
And not to mention watching him get ready is my favourite thing. The smell of aftershave, (and weirdly Neosporin?) the sound of his watch clasping shut, the air of Dior Sauvage which I can almost taste on my tongue and the rhythm of my heart pulsating when he glances at me through the mirror, watching me lying on the bed like those models in Playboy magazines.
As we’re about to leave, I throw my usual ten thousand questions at him, because I can’t stand silence lingering between us when it could be filled with our voices- or better, our mouths on each other’s.
"Did you book us the corner table? Will it be packed? I want privacy. Have you restocked the mints in our car? Are you really going to wear that shoes? I can see your shaving cream residue behind your ears. Are you gonna get the Sunset drink again? I hope not, because I think the waiters might ban you from there if you spill it again."
Alfie is laughing. I suddenly notice the box cutter protruding from underneath the pillow. We keep it under our pillow in case of any break-ins. Mrs. Fuller next door was traumatized last year when some weirdo wearing all black broke in and stole her antique pots and understandably enough– Roquefort cheese from her fridge. Though rumour has it, it wasn't just anybody- they say it was her son who she put in rehab 6 years ago who somehow made the escape.
Alfie catches my glance takes quick steps to grab it when,
"Does knowing me more leads to loving me less?" I ask, eagerly waiting for an answer.
“That’s random.” He says.
“It’s not.”
I could feel the tension building up. He didn't know what to answer. Will & Grace is running in the background as white noise.
“I think people like me more at first,” I said. “Before they know everything, you know."
He sat on the bed, on top of the pillow and tilts his head. I realize he's devilishly handsome.
"Everything like what?”
I shrugged. “Like how I sad I get sometimes. I can't help it. It's a part of me. Or how I disappear when I’m upset instead of talking. It bothers me but again, you know where this comes from right? Unresolved childhood trauma."
He laughed a little. “I know. I accept your flaws as it is. You don't need to shit your brains out worrying about it."
“Still.”
He watched me for a second. Then he said, “You know what changes when you know someone longer?”
“What?”
“The fantasy disappears.”
I looked at him, unsure if that was supposed to help.
“But something else replaces it,” he continued. “You stop loving the idea of them. You start loving the actual person. You start noticing the patterns, what made them this into this person, their mental scars and everything else they keep hidden from the rest of the world. The chaos, the vulnerabilities, the weight of their hearts, I could go on.."
“And if they stop loving you after knowing you?” I ask him.
“Then they probably only liked the easier version of you."
The TV kept flickering light across the room. A bolt of thunder lit up the apartment, making us both realize how much time had passed and that we were supposed to be leaving for our date. Without much more discussion, we got up and started heading out. But before we left, I couldn’t help asking one last question.
“What if someone knows everything about me one day? The ugly parts too?”
“Then they’ll finally have the chance to love all of you instead of just the easy pieces."
He answered without even thinking. Not even for a split second.
Was he always prepared for moments like this?
How could someone be so grounded, so perfect, and somehow always know the right answers to all the wrong questions?
I take it back, he's Jake Peralta but better.
He locks our door, takes my hand and walks me to our car. As we're about to leave, I ask him to get me the mints from the backseat, and so he did.
Wearing the beautiful checkered shirt I got him last Christmas where he spent the entire day with my family sharing Christmas cheer, he reaches over, his sleeves pulling up, just enough for me to notice it,
and in that particular moment, I swear I felt my heart give up. I felt my throat dry up and the will to live drained straight out of my body.
Cuts on his arm.
(Why?)
Cuts on his arm.
Vertical cuts.
Purple bruises.
(No, that can't be.)
Oversized hoodies.
Neosporin.
(He's supposed to be happy.)
Cuts on his arm.
(But why?)
The box cutter.
The box cutter under the pillow.
(You oblivious, selfish, pathetic fool.)
Cuts on his arm.
Purple.
Vertical.
(Why?)
There were cuts all over his arm.