He stuck the photo of us up on his refrigerator, beside the postcard I brought him back from my last trip to India. I wonder if they both now live beside the card I posted to him from Pondicherry. The one with the scented stamp. I consider how there are currently remnants of me all over his apartment. From the crystals on the windowsill in his bedroom, to the record player I leant him in his living room. The photos of me, filed in boxes, amongst the evidence of other women he has touched and tasted. The green chair that used to sit beside my desk, which presently sits at his dinner table.
Does he catch glimpses of them and smile. Rub his rocks and think of how I laid tarot cards for him on the floor that time. Or am I simply one of many conquests, whose presence he keeps on the peripheral, just in case. A backup plan should he need one.
He calls me, allows me to whittle away my concerns regarding my past love. The one who used to be his friend, until jealousy and ego and myself entered the equation. I call him, listen whilst he relays his concerns about the one who always cancels. The one he immortalised on film, forever reminding him in every scene. Every so often, he reaches out, tells me he needs me, says we’d be great together, believes we’ll end up together, asks me to come back to the city we once called our home. And in those moments, I’m inclined to lean in. To embrace him and his offerings. Only, when I do, he leans out. Flooded with anxiety and concern that it’ll be too much or not enough.
So, I leave it to rest and we return to our normal ebb and flow. Pretending as though it never quite happened.
Eventually, I learn to to see him as uneven ground. Only reliable in his unreliability. Deciding to put new loves, that pass by, ahead of his requests. The ones that always seem unstable and formed in moments of late-night ecstasy, regretted and retracted come the cold light of day. I question if this will always be our way, or if we’re simply waiting for the right moment to arrive. The one that delivers a commitment worth having. A relationship we’re not afraid to have. Fragile little creatures that we are. Always running from what we want most, in fear of the heartache we have suffered one too many times before. Just two wounded birds, with grazed wings and hearts. Who’ve learnt to expect the worst. Disbelieve the beauty. As so often, our love has been lost to those who could not hold it.
I sit and consider the implications of such a love though, as I gaze upon the snow-capped mountains, which I have struggled through the darkness of night and Nepalese hillsides to witness. Is this my destiny, to always fight for the affection of those who know not the value of it. Those who cannot reciprocate it. Will I always seek the broken, to reflect back on me my own jagged edges.
I got you a crystal, I say. He responds with a nonchalant ‘cool’, as if the three hour conversation I had with the palm-reading gemologist, in the process of its procurement, was an everyday affair. It seems I continually lay gold at his feet, despite him barely acknowledging. Is this who you want, I ask myself. Is this the type of man you wish to give your magic to. Perhaps I’m finally tired of my own lack of appreciation. The way in which I’ve come to diminish myself. Acting the martyr in order to save those whom are unwilling to respect my sacrifices. Probably because I no longer do either.
A friend reminds me that samosas from street vendors in India come in two categories: good and average. The former, costing 10 rupees, is spicy, and filling. The latter, costing 20 rupees, is bland, and leaves you empty. I consider if this man is a 20 rupee samosa I’ve been pretending only cost me 10.
Meditating on a rooftop, overlooking the rippling waters of Phewa Lake and the bucolic surrounding hillsides, I inquire as to how satiated I really want to be. How much contentment do I truly believe I deserve. How many samosas do I need to eat, before I understand when someone is asking too much and delivering too little. And whether, in fact, I should try eating something else completely.