There Was Us

A Story by Maya Quay

There was me. There was you. There was us.

There was the first time I saw you. Across the library. Fingers tippy-tapping on the keyboard. Your face a mask of determination. Then you stopped the tapping. Your eyes ran rampant over the screen. Your face lit up in a smile. More of a smirk actually. You brushed your hair out of your eyes. Your face became the mask again. I watched you for hours. My research lay dead on the marred table.

There was the second time I saw you. I (un)gracefully slid into the seat across from you. I was too afraid to talk. You didn’t look up. We kept working. I tried to say it a thousand. A million times. You were tippy-tapping again. My fingers followed yours on the tabletop. For hours. We did this. Together. Apart. You stood up. You looked at me. You raised your eyebrows and pointed to your computer. I just nodded. You vanished within the shelves. You came back with a book. You flipped through the pages. Your fingers were shaking. You found the page you wanted. You read. You twisted your bracelets. You kneaded your hands. You had nervous tics. You could feel me sneaking looks at you. Under my glasses. I made you nervous. I grabbed your hand. You were tense. Then you melted. We looked at each other. You held my hand. I held yours. We worked in silence.

There was the first time we talked. Well. Not really. It was the third time I held your hand. It was the third time you melted. Your outsides were calm. My insides were serene. You got up to go. Our hands fell apart. You packed your things. You slid a piece of paper across the table. You left. Your fingers tapping an anxious drumbeat on your thigh. I watched you go. Out the door. Along the street. Disappearing into the underground train station. I open the paper. I thought it would explode. Ten numbers. Random numbers. They meant everything. It was signed with a smiley face. And your name. Your name was perfect for you. Soft. But strong. Round. But with an edge. You. All you.

There was when I texted you after 2 hours. I was at home. My leg was bouncing. My eyes wide. All because of a simple hey. Was hey too casual? I didn’t think before I typed. I never really think when it comes to you. You sent back a hi who is this? I sent back my name. Oh from the library! Was the response. I chuckled. I said yes. I don’t remember what came next. All I remember is that I loved it. I loved you. Already. I loved you.

There was our first date. The first time I heard your voice. You said hello. I said hi. We saw a movie. I don’t remember which one. I remember you eating twizzlers. I remember you tippy-tapping a drumbeat on your leg. I remember grabbing your hand. You melted. I held on for dear life. I prayed to a God I didn’t think was there. I prayed you wouldn’t let go. You didn’t.

There was when you and I became Us. We. A unit. A package. I don’t remember how this happened either. I remember a presence. Something more than myself. Something you. I remember when you would wake up in silence. But you were screaming. It was January. Always in January. I don’t remember you telling me. I remember knowing why. You would whisper and mutter. Myfaultmyfaultallmyfault. I would say that it wasn’t. I would try to reason with you. You didn’t tie the knot. You didn’t hang the rope. You didn’t slit her wrists. You didn’t push her off the chair. I told you. You were asleep. I said. You looked at me with eyes like caves. That’s just it though. That’s what you said. It took me a long time to understand that. I understand now.

There were the days. They weren’t like the nights. You were happy. Your eyes were like birdsong. Bubbly. Bright. Nothing like the caves. Once you asked me which one I loved more. The birdsong or the caves. I thought for a minute. Or two. Or three. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I told you that they were both you. You couldn’t have one without the other. They were you. And I loved you. Correction. Love you. Always will. But as I was saying. The days. You would sing. You would sing all the time. You would sing while I was talking to you. I knew you were still listening. And your voice. It wasn’t amazing. But it wasn’t bad either. It was like someone had set your voice back to the factory settings. No extra dazzle. Just you.

There were the evenings. They were my favorite. You would cook for me. I couldn’t cook. Still can’t. You were never able to teach me. You would make dinner to the sounds of punk rock thrumming through the s****y speakers. The music was a little tinny. A little distorted. But it felt right. You would dance around the small yellow kitchen. Spinning around. Singing along. Pointing various wooden and metal things at me. The songs screamed out words of adolescent angst. Cursing the world around us. Us. A unit. Us.

There was dessert. It was all smooth music and hips. You stirred. And poured. And swayed. Frank Sinatra and Billie Holiday flowed into my bones. Into my soul. Wait. Sorry. Essence. You never believed in souls. Chocolate was tempered. Fruit was chopped. Batter wars began with shocked faces and ended with kisses that tasted like cake and you. Or maybe you just tasted like cake. I can’t remember now. You were happy. I was happy. We were happy.

There were the non-January nights. The nights when we would fill our room with heat. I won’t go into detail. It doesn’t seem right to write it here. Those nights are for us. After. As the heat slowly left the room. We were just there. Together. We held hands and pretended the ceiling was made of stars. We showed each other imaginary constellations. The lovers, the fighters, the dog peeing on the fire hydrant. We fell asleep. You didn’t dream of her. I dreamt of you. Of us.

There was the night when I asked you to be with me. Not just in words. Or touches. Or actions. But legally. You didn’t want a big wedding. Neither did I. I gave you a ring. You cried. I didn’t get down on one knee. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get back up again if you said no. You said yes. We became us even more.

There was the night I found the ring on the dresser. I had gone to get milk. How stereotypical. I tramped through the snow. So much snow. It was January. You needed milk for your coffee. I went to the market down the street. They were out. I had to take the train to the other store. I was gone for an hour. Only an hour. I came back. I put the milk away. I called your name. I heard the shower. I decided to join you. I was cold. From all the snow. It was January. When I walked into the room I saw the ring. It was sitting on the dresser. Not tossed there. Placed. Gently. Like you planned to come back. I picked up the ring. I smiled. I set it back down. Gently. I planned to come back. I still heard the shower. I was cold. The snow had made me cold. It was January. I walked to the bathroom. I opened the door. I saw the steam. I saw you. You weren’t in the shower. You were on the floor. Curled into a ball. You didn’t leave an explanation. Cheek pressed into the tile. Still. No more smooth hips. No more birdsong or caves. Cold. I was cold. It was the snow. It was January.

There was the year. It’s been a year. I wore the ring. I had planned to go back. I did. I wore both of the rings. Like battle scars. I stayed in the apartment. I didn’t wash the bathroom floor. You were pressed into the cracks of the tiles. Little red lines staining the off-white grout. I couldn’t wash you away. I couldn’t wash us away. I didn’t talk to anyone unless I had to. I tramped to the library. I sat at our table. I was cold. There was snow. I saw someone there. Not you. Working. Not like you. I left. I tramped back home. To our home. I walked in. I put the rings on the dresser. Side by side. I didn’t gently place them. I tossed them. I didn’t plan to come back. I walked to the bathroom. I took the things from the drawer. Your drawer. I layed on the floor next to your little red lines. Curled into a ball. I left this as my explanation. I pressed my cheek into the tile. I was still. I was cold. It was the snow. It was January.