"I've never seen you struggle this badly to talk to me," He says. We're in agreement on this point. "Usually I see you like this with other people."
I very awkwardly stumble my way through and try to condense whatever is crumbing around me into short phrases, accusing him of putting me on the spot. He's taken aback. It wasn't on purpose, obviously, but I think, while earnestly wishing I could instead just be put out of my misery, that maybe just letting whatever feelings come up exist is the only way through. None of it is making sense though, but I need to let it happen. Fucking fuck.
"I'm... mad?" I finally spit out.
"At me?" Sinclair squeaks.
"Yeah." I say. I almost don't believe it myself.
It didn't start with him, though we've been in each other's lives for many years; frankly he's not even a contributing factor. Sinclair has just brought out the worst symptoms of whatever it is that's grown too heavy -- stop. I know what it is. Brought out... these memories of be more careful next time, of hiding my truest self, loner, creepy dyke bitch, trying to feel good and grateful when Thorn panted the world "pretty" in my ear, averting my eyes away in the locker room because instinctually I don't belong there with them, but like every other instinct I just shove it down. It goes wherever the rest of those difficult moments go. The only instinct I entertained was the one to look away from something disturbing.
Is it because I've been so closed off is why I never picked up on his flirting? I'm mortified to admit it to him at all, and he shares it's embarassing for him too that I didn't notice as a consolation. If the ground cracked open underneath me and swallowed me whole in this moment, I wouldn't mind it a single bit. He knows about how Mem feels too, in all it's potency, and it's my turn to be a bit speechless. Speechless, and frustrated. Of course he would already know how Mem feels. Why do I always, always miss the signs?
"How--how long... how long have you been interested?" I finally ask him. We're in a trust fall now, I realize, and I'm not sure what answer is going to even feel the least terrible to hear.
"A while, a while," he says a bit haltingly. ⏪︎ That flash of anger roils up in me, and it almost feels like... betrayal? How stupid. I know that I'm feeling irrational about this. I want to laugh. I want to scream. Why? The flirting was one thing--does he want to date?
Or is he just looking for a quick fuck?
"I guess that's where the core of my anger is, is that if it's been a while--if it's been a while and then it's that exact moment in front of everyone is where it really comes up--" I work through it. "Did not feel great."
There's a brief silence.
"No, that's... I can understand that." He says. Saying it at this level, admitting how it feels even just on the surface--I feel this urge to fight roar up in me. Does he? Does he actually understand? He explains that he gets propositioned a lot, but it's just so--
--satisfied, confused-- No. I need to go there, I need to remember where I first felt like this. It's not fair to him, it's not fair to me, it's just not fair.
"It almost felt like a joke."
Merin appearing in my life at this exact moment when everything is breaking apart in me is... big. But why? She was one good friend that I've had, but the way she can just see through the cracks I have in my walls is just so-- ⏪︎
-- I opt to drink when asked if I like women.
cared for, disgusted, warm--
It would be so much easier if he didn't care about how I felt, if he got defensive and shitty about it so I could get shitty right back, but he's nice. I wish I could have been nicer. I wish that we could have been closer friends, I wish that I wasn't so major league levels of fucked up in my interpersonal relationships, that I could just say things like how others do and let people get closer. Instead, the best I can manage is: "I don't think I can be your girlfriend, Sinclair." I want to keep lying.I can't keep lying. I can't. I can't--
"I was getting that sense."
"I don't know... if I can be anyone's girlfriend."
"Married... to your work then?"
I'm dancing around it with him, trying to pull at any remaining threads that are holding this shambling wreck of a lie together. I want badly to convince him I'd be a terrible fit, way too much for him. I say "I'm not really regarded as that to anyone," while thinking of every "fun" night out in college when I tried so hard to be normal. Fantastic for a fun time, never for a long one though. You know me as the creepy shut-in now, but wait til you hear about my past as a raging slut! Did you know I had to take Plan B at age fifteen? Would it be easier to wreck this by painting myself as too broken or should I just say what it actually is?
The way he prompts me to continue doesn't feel threatening; he wants me to speak up. I sputter and stall, I laugh desperately as I realize what's going to happen. What's stopping me, he asks. What gives me pause?
I want to speak up. I want this to stop feeling so heavy. Doing it for myself for once feels like I'm walking onto a brand new dig site: the ruins of shielding myself from my own life and the tools by which I constructed my lies are scattered at my feet.
"What makes you want to turn away?" In the ruins are a girlhood that I never really was attached to anyway. It needs to break completely, it needs to shatter; it's no use to me anymore.
"The girl part...?"
"I mean, it sounds like you're transgender."