The line between real and fake is traversed so offhandedly so often that soon enough, it’s almost like there’s no line altogether.
I forget sometimes, it’s that simple. Unfortunately, when I forget these things, people act like I’ve done something awful; like I’ve attempted to tamper with the delicate fabric of the sorry reality they have resigned themselves to. So, now, I try not to forget. To order my steps and my words so that I do not bear the risk of wrongness, of offence.
The goal is for your duality to be indistinguishable. Even you are not supposed to know that there are two of you. Your selves must blend and meld into synergy so pure they can swap out felicitously and unceremoniously when the need, as it so often does, arises.
My name is Tam, 20 something, a well-balanced individual whose insignificance overwhelms them whenever they let their mind stray to the subject of it, which is fairly often. I’m like everyone else, living with no consideration to how futile existence is. I do not cry constantly and long for something, anything, to inspire me to live another day, to get out of bed in the morning. I am not self-indulgent with my feelings, letting my emotions consume me until I can not see past them, until they weigh me down and erase the concept of tomorrow from my mind, only today and now in this moment of suffering.
I’m at work and there’s a customer at the counter. The time is 4:36 pm and, I’m on hour eight of my nine-hour shift. She’s trying to decide on what colour she should get the pants she wants in.
I cannot begin to explain how much I’ve grown to hate mindless external monologues; people talking for the sake of it, for no tangible reason or people asking questions whose answers are blatantly obvious just because they can.
“What do you recommend, miss?” Cue toothy, apologetic-in-the-eyes smile.
“You should go with the blue.”
“I’d rather have the blue, but pink just goes with everything doesn't it? And the blue’s more snug around the waist…” like I give a shit.
Why even ask?
The sales reps had done their bit, they’d herded her through the aisles and they’d actually tried to impact her decisions because that was their job. I felt so sorry for them, constantly.
Usually, by the time the customers make it to me, they’re ready to pay and leave. Sometimes, though, I get people like this woman who are not all talked out after the torturous process of bargain shopping and who are eager to perform at any given opportunity. Dramatic sighs, gasps and shrugs like they’re deciding on the fate of humanity.
I endure it for the fifteen more minutes it takes her to make her decision. She settles on pink.
I’m usually not this mean. Or well, I wasn’t always. Now, I’m constantly on edge. I hate the drab routine that is life. I’m tired of participating. Every day is the same; the mindless patterns and routines that we cultivate keep us in an eternal loop. I’m exhausted.
I had a date after work that day and the thought of it had both propelled me through the day and worsened my mood. Anticipation is anxiety. I do not get the novelty of waiting, anticipation, longing and the patience that they all require.
My shift ended and the first thing I did was change into reasonable shoes. They make us wear heels at Parking. We’re selling the upscale fashion dream on a budget but upscale nonetheless and, what better way to portray this image than to have staff stand for hours in heels because of course, standing is required too.
I gathered my belongings and fled the building to prepare for my date. It was a hot day. One of those days where the sun is outrightly oppressive and the heat is stifling. It was 5:10 pm and the sun showed no signs of receding, punishingly defiant.
I got home, washed my face, changed out of my work clothes and let my hair down. I tied my hair up at work because I did not want to endure the comments, questions and requests to touch from strangers. Tonight, however, I was letting it down. I know it’s gorgeous when it’s down, the one distinct thing about me, separating me from the horde. Hey, at least my hair is different, right?
I was seeing Bade who I’d been seeing for two months. Things were going well enough, we understood each other and had both been desperate for companionship when we’d met. We had dinner together two times a week and we spent weekends together.
I tried my best to suppress the constant screaming in my head whenever I was around him. The roaring that prompts me to pull at my hair, to pinch my arm until I break skin, to ruin it.
It had the magic of effort, convention and sensibility. It was adequate because he mostly just let me be; I didn’t have to be any of my manufactured selves, I could just be. I was bored out of my mind.
He seemed content. He reminded me of milk; I cannot explain how. He was fine with settling, keyed into the magic of our mediocrity, our nothingness. The fact that separately, we were two deeply insignificant people but together, at least we’re in tolerable company.
I hadn’t seen him in a while. He’d been out of state for work and so we’d broken routine for a week. Usually, these dinners are just another part of the everyday drivel that makes up the week. I have to admit though, I liked not being alone; a lot. Having someone who’s decided to fill the space of your “other” is a pretty decent thing. Being at a store and not having to stumble through it alone awkwardly, having someone to exchange knowing looks with and absentmindedly touch and hold on to. Someone who waits while you catch up or ensures you’re in step. It’s nice.
Dinner was at the place we always go. A sensible family restaurant located halfway from his apartment and mine, a neutral street. The food was alright and the portions adequate. We usually order the same thing or slight variations of the same thing.
He came in and we exchanged greetings awkwardly. We never seemed to get it right. We keep finding ourselves in that position where one person reaches in for a side hug while one person attempts a full-frontal hug then their bodies jam at a weird angle and one party pulls away before the other does and it’s simply a mess.
We ordered food, same thing as always but with extra spring rolls today. He ate quietly, asking me mundane questions between perfunctory sips of water.
“How was work today?”
“Did your laptop upgrade completely?”
I answered with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, ignoring the droning and dull thumping that would inevitably graduate into a full-on storm in my head as the evening wore on.
While eating, he dropped his fork on the plate with a clatter, as if he’d suddenly had enough and could simply not bear to continue. He looked me dead in the eye, threw his hands up and said; “I can’t do this”.
I looked around the restaurant, at the red walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint and the decor that needed to advance past the 1960s. I look at the tables and the chairs, we were at the same table as always.
I look at the bar where I’d sat waiting for him for an hour on the first day we’d met here, the first day we met. He had suggested the place and then he'd been terribly late. I was about to leave when he came. His apology was sensible, he made his intentions (companionship to lessen the dullness of existence) clear and so, we’d entered a relationship. I look at him last; he's still talking but I’d tuned him out from the second I got the message. The ringing in my head had stopped.
I knew it was a final moment. That’d I’d never see him or step foot into this restaurant again.
The next day, by 8:00 am I’m at work again, shoes digging into my heels, fake smile plastered on my face because my shift just started and there’s a silent requirement of effort at least until noon. I think of Bade and his departure from me and how I am once again alone, forced to deal with myself. To shoulder my burdens and soothe my aches, alone.
I’m failing, there are cracks in my reverie and I see that the duality that I’ve been trying to attain is a myth. I’ll continue to put one foot ahead of the other until there’s no path left.
a wonderful read
Oh wow