I want to lay down. Not in the way of rest or sleep, that is too simple. I want to lay down, hands crossed over my chest, in a coffin, cue passing away – fade out, and scene.
Instead, my hands yank and tear at clothes and my mouth hungrily razes a mouth, on a face I do not see. I’m searching for her, in this person’s waist and with my hand around their neck. When I bite them, I want her to feel it, and as their fingers trace my insides, I close my eyes and think of her.
I cry a little, and the person misunderstands what my tears mean. I hobble out of their apartment awkwardly, because there must be some awkwardness, after screaming at them to “fuck me like you hate me” and then proceeding to cry all over their face, staring at me from underneath, confused, boob in their mouth, and then soaking through their pillow with snivelling tears.
As I walk home in the cool evening breeze and that perfect wet and cold post-rain, post-cry and post-coital feeling flows through me, I wonder; how much longer will I look for her? And how much longer will she evade me?
I have the bones of a story, I’ve not made much sense of it myself, so its retelling will be flawed at best, and false at worst.
It was my third day at the hospital, and they still didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was glad for the break. The IV in my arm made me feel lightheaded, in a good way. I floated for most of my stay.
The food was surprisingly good, the air smelled clean enough and they let me take long walks in the garden. I was on my fourth book, and I’d already started to feel different. By day seven, I’d grown tired, and they’d grown bored, so they sent me home with medicine that I chucked out a few steps away from the hospital gates, marginally less unwell than when I arrived, but I’d found something.
I walked into the ER delirious. My head hurt, I was dizzy, fainting spells, pain where? everywhere, but especially in my chest. I needed a break.
Before the hospital, I’d been home, drifting in and out of sleep. I did not want to wake up, and I have this gift, I close my eyes and Hypnos lulls me to sleep. So I slept through days, I’d wake up and refuse! reject! and then I’d sleep again.
I met her first in a dream, that third day, half asleep, on a bench in the hospital garden, and she’d stood in my shade, then and henceforth. I’d only just fallen asleep, and barely, stuck on a thought.
My book lay open across my chest, I’d dropped it for some shut-eye, to reflect on Jacques’ moments of profundity and Giovanni’s “If you cannot love me, I will die” and night had covered me in the shade of the trees by about 3 pm when she appeared. Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed her too.
I sensed her presence and woke up, scooting over so I wasn’t monopolising the bench I’d fallen asleep on. There were others, all empty, but she hovered over me like she expected me to move; like she needed company, and so I did. She nodded thank you and sat beside me, and that was it that day. I had not looked up then. I read my book; she stared off, something clearly on her mind. I had no business outside myself so I remained buried in the final pages of my book and when I was done, I rose to leave. I needed to be alone to digest it in its entirety, and more importantly, to cry.
“Hey, I’m Ali.”
Her voice was like butter, like silk, like silky butter. I was ill-prepared for conversation, and less so when I finally looked at her. It was like she was bathed in light. She was so beautiful; tall, dark, full lips, sad, sleepy eyes dotted brown. I had to tell her.
“Hi Ali, you’re beautiful.”
She blushed; “Thank you. You’re supposed to introduce yourself now.”
“Hi Ali, I’m Jo. I’m sorry, I have to go, but I’ll be here tomorrow, by 1 pm. I’d like to see you again. I’ll be ready then, and I need to be ready. I did not set out on my walk today expecting to encounter Aphrodite.”
What on earth was I on about? She raised one perfectly carved yet bushy eyebrow, smirked, and nodded, and then I grabbed my book and headed to my room.
On day four, I was waiting on our bench under our tree by 12 pm. I’d spent the entire night painting pictures of her face in my mind. When she walked into my line of sight, by 12:30, I was winded again. She looked even more beautiful than the day before. Her long locs were tied back today, and she wore a short powder blue sundress that struck her skin like lightning. Her legs extended for miles, and I could see that she’d patted her eyelids with matching shimmery eyeshadow. I stared at her lips too long, she caught me.
I brought snacks that I’d bought from the hospital concession stand. Nothing I was proud of, skittles, vimto, those chocolate and apple-filled croissants, but we’d met in a hospital, so I was sure she understood.
We said our hellos, motioning for a hug, and then a handshake and settling into a hug. She smelled amazing, it took all my willpower not to inhale, but I was ready today.
We sat down and I offered her a drink. I’d brought Giovanni’s Room because I’d only just finished it, and I hadn’t started another book yet. My mind was occupied.
“Your book; is it any good?”
“Yes. Quite.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll tell you about it, but only enough so you want to read it yourself. It's yours; please take it with you.”
I handed her the book and she examined the cover, then she brought the book close to her face, flipped through it, and inhaled the book’s scent.
I fell in love then.
I told her about the book. About Daniel, the American, and the detriment of running from self. Giovanni’s room is the world, 1950s Paris is the time and place. It is about love, but it is not a love story. It is about choice and circumstance. And James Baldwin — what a man.
We spent the rest of our date; and what a date it was, talking. Ali, 26, had approached my bench the day before fighting tears. Her father was here, intubated. They’d just informed her that his chances of survival were slim to none. They had a complicated relationship, and so her feelings were conflicted, in fact, she did not know what she felt.
I held her hand while she talked, and she leaned into me, further and further until she was nestled against my chest.
I told her why I was there too; I needed a break. That customary sense of suffocation often fills my body and brain, and once before it’d led me to proper harm. So now, when I start to feel close to explosion, I walk into St Peter’s, and they know me. And she understood me, she’d nearly lost her mind a few times too.
Soon it was evening, and she had to go.
“Come again tomorrow.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry. But I can come back the day after tomorrow?”
“Thank you.”
Church is theatre. I respect it. I go as the spirit leads. I visit the hospital chapel every time I come, the product of firmly lodged childhood indoctrination, and this time, there I was, on the 5th day. At my lowest low, I drink bread and wine, and the priest damns me to hell in the same vein as the spiritual upliftment. As I’m feeling sanctified, I sink my knees into the velvet cushion fashioned specially for that purpose, clasp my hands together, and close my eyes to pray. Tightly, so that I can be earnest and focused and true.
“Dear God, [pleasantries], what do you do up there all day? I wonder — with reverence of course.
On one hand, I am but a speck of dust, sand from sand and to sand. On the other hand, apparently, you watch my every move. Every breath I take, as my chest lifts and falls under your watchful gaze. Which is it? Unimportance in the grand scheme, a circle that will complete, beginning to end regardless of what life does before and after said circle, or am I special, loved divinely, catered and cared for. It often feels like the former, and when I forget, something makes sure to remind me quick. There is much evil in the world, and what is the value of life?
Isaiah 45:7 says, “I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the LORD do all these things.” I wonder about that. Which is it that you do? They’re totally conflicting, are they not?
Today, the answer to that does not matter. Dear God, if you can spare some time for a wretch(ck) like me, help make my life feel less purposeless. Help me feel less like a leaf blowing in the wind. Help me forget my mortality since I cannot overcome it.
I wonder if you hear prayers like these. Little ones from little people with little problems. I wonder if you hear the big ones too; there are a couple I think you might have missed. God, fill me with soul when I am empty, put the light in my eyes when they are dead and hollow, and hold me as the world tilts sideways. Amen.”
She was back the next day, and she brought snacks; better ones. We hugged the second we were close enough and I nestled my nose in the crook of her neck while she stroked my back.
I resolved then that she would simply look more beautiful every time I saw her, every time the light hit her differently. In a thousand places and positions. The novelty of her beauty would never wear off.
She’d finished Giovanni’s Room in a day. And she’d loved it. She sympathised with Giovanni, loathed Guillaume, and was indifferent towards Jacques and his advice that did nothing. On those points, we mostly agreed. I believed that Jacques for all his uselessness was full of substance and an understanding that comes with a life of learning, longing, and some suffering. But on Daniel, we did not. She understood him in a way I did not, or refused to.
Our hearts raced as we talked about the book, and I knew I wanted to hear her spirited speech about everything and nothing every day.
I knew a place, the old library at the back of the hospital annex. Nobody ever went there. I’d stolen so many of their books that I simply put them back because the access meant that I didn’t even have to. It was there that we kissed, as we branched off on our walk.
I’d told her about the library, and she’d asked to see. She kissed me the second we walked through the door, and we had sex on the floor in between the bookshelves. Nothing had ever felt as right. My entire life had been leading up to that moment.
“I love you.”
She laughed.
“Now now?”
“Yes.”
She kissed my forehead and held me tighter. We fell asleep and did not wake up until it was dark.
As we unpaused our walk feeling like everything was right with the world, the pressure from the touching and kissing and poking and prodding still heavy on our skin, they brought news that Ali’s father had passed. I held her while she sobbed, and I walked with her as his body was wheeled away in a bag.
Before she left the hospital that night, she said goodbye.
“Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“I love you, and I’d like to see you again.”
“I’ll give you my number. Maybe we can meet somewhere else. I’m never coming here again.”
By the next day, day seven, I was healed. I bid my bed, the garden, the library, and the doctors goodbye, until whenever. I called her 5 times daily; anything more would be excessive, yes? After a week of no response, twice. Then once.
I’d seen what we could be. As we sat on that bench talking, I’d seen the future in her eyes. When she kissed me I tasted milk and honey on her lips. Her father had died at a particularly inopportune time, and I’d met her in an unfortunate place.
In the second week, she called me back.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“I figured it was you, I’m sorry I’ve been hard to reach. Let’s meet somewhere today, if you’re up for it.”
“Tell me where. I’m there.”
She’d picked a restaurant, 6 pm. I was there by 5, and I met her waiting. It was mostly empty, which was good. We sat on the same side of the booth and held each other silently. We ordered and ate, more silence. I was just happy to be in her presence.
“I know we only just met, and you barely know me, but I want you to know me. And I want to know you too. I’d like to see you as often as we can manage. Run away with me.”
She laughed. Her eyes watered.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
She took my hand and held it in hers. She wove her fingers into mine and teased my palm with her thumb.
“Where would we live? Describe it to me.”
I cleared my throat, and closed my eyes more tightly, to see the vision more clearly; and to try to focus while her fingers trailed up my arm and down my neck and spine.
“We’d live in a coastal city. A proper one, not like Lagos, somewhere you can feel the wind from the sea from your front door and it smells crisp and fresh. A walkable city, so we can wander off into the sunset, every day.
She smiled at me sadly, and then she asked me to follow her to the bathroom. We kissed there, and it was different. I searched for her with my hands and mouth, and she parted my lips with her tongue, but there was a lack of urgency in her fingers.
When we returned to our booth, she withdrew from me completely, I could see it as clearly as I could feel it.
“This is goodbye, isn’t it? I respect that. But not without my sweeping declaration of love. Not without borrowing from Jacques's advice to throw caution to the wind and love.”
“Your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour—and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it.”
“This could be much more than what it is. There is nowhere to hide from the world, even if you submerge yourself underwater. And if you are my world, then where do I go?”
She stood up to leave.
“This is all too much for me. I wish I had the capacity to love you and to follow you on your elaborate journeys, but I can’t. I am a practical girl, and this is a practical life. Maybe if I had met you in another place or another time or as another version of myself, we could have been magical. I am jealous of your past lovers. They knew iterations of you that I will never know. But I am also thankful for them, for they are the path that birthed the rich texture of your love. Its earthiness and depth. I’m thankful that I experienced it, even if in this very limited capacity.”
The hospital had lost its otherworldliness by the next time I went, and the places that had brought me comfort there were haunted by her, and us, and what we could have been.
I never saw her again, but I continue to search. We gave each other something.
We missed you! I enjoyed reading it!