A Stomach Ache

The last time we rode the train together, we kissed so fiercely that I elicited applause from the other passengers when he exited.  We had sat close to one another, my feet tucked underneath my thighs, my knees resting on his legs.  We spoke in excited whispers, our faces inches apart and our voices dripping with anticipation.  Our sentences were punctuated with kisses – long and deep, short and small, on the top of my head, on his neck, on our lips.  His stop approached, and we held on as he stood up. 

“Bye,” I said in a very small and once-again shy voice.

He arranged his face into a quiet grin and repeated me.  “Bye.”

We were pulling into the station, but we weren’t there yet, so I lifted my face up to him, leading with expectant eyes.  My mouth was smiling when he kissed it again, and I pulled him down further by the strings on his sweatshirt.  Further down into me.

When the doors to the train opened, I waved wildly and tried to show him how happy he made me, how much I was going to miss him.  He started to walk away, and I was starting to get used to the idea that he really, truly had to leave when he stepped back in and kissed me one last time, his thumb and index finger cupping my chin so very slightly.

—

When I met him one evening this week, I knew that we wouldn’t be kissing.  Not that night, not ever again.

“Hi,” I said, offering the coy look I’d been keeping just for him.

He smiled too, but not as wide as he had the week before.  We started to walk, and as we fell in step together, I reached for his arm.  His hands were pushed deep into his pockets.  I ran my fingers down the length of his shirt, but he didn’t free his hand.  My hand knocked against his wrist.  My heart dropped.  My stomach hurt.

“So,” I said, pointing to his head.  “What’s going on up there?”

“Rochelle …” he kept walking, holding dearly to the fabric of his pants. 

I nodded to myself.  I knew what he was going to say.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

I nodded to him.  That meant that he knew he wouldn’t do this anymore.

“I understand,” I said, letting my hands wander to my own pockets.  That was half-true.  I understood the fact that he should feel that way – but not why he did.

“You’re … great,” he said, pausing to look at me for the briefest of moments.  “You’re wonderful, actually.”  I smiled to myself and him.  Attraction is a glorious thing, and I appreciated, at that moment, its blinding power.  It was nice to be thought great.

He continued.  “But she …” his voice trailed off.  He said her name.  “She is so … good.  To me.”

I nodded again, hiding my eyes under the brim of my winter hat. 

“I understand,” I said like a broken record, like a liar.

We stood on the corner, silently deciding whether or not to descend into the subway, whether or not to further hurt each other and the people around us.  The wind picked up and pushed my hair off the nape of my neck.  It was very cold, and though I wanted to bury my face into his collarbone, I just said “Well, let’s go down.”

We found a bench and sat next to each other.  I drew my feet underneath me but didn’t lean on him. 

We sighed so much, so loudly.

We moved to the train when it arrived.

He talked about how exciting, how different our time together was, and I listened.  He talked about how awful he felt, how sad and angry, and I listened to that too.  In the past, I’d had trouble articulating all of the excellent things I wanted to say to him, but this time, both my mouth and mind were dry.  What was I feeling?  What would I say?  I couldn’t discern any emotion, except for a small, sharp twinge in the left corner of my abdomen. 

I had eaten too much that night – sauce americaine by the spoonful, tart apple slices coated with apricot glaze, short ribs cooked en sous vide, chicken skin stuffed with duck and seared in more fat, perfect creme anglaise and later, a creme anglaise ice cream.

We sat for a few minutes more and then he spoke in a voice so gentle, I almost didn’t hear it.  “I don’t know.  I just want to curdle.”

Curdle?  Like a hollandaise?  I moved my head in agreement.  I felt curdled on the inside too.  But it was loud in the station and we were being so quiet with each other that maybe I was wrong.  Maybe he hadn’t said that at all.

As his stop inched closer, I thought about kissing him – one last time, for good measure, for goodbye, because it would feel so nice and so bad.  I didn’t. 

“Well, it’s been real,” I said with a smirk and a salute, to let him know that I was going to be okay – that I was going to be just fine.  He groaned – whether it was out of upset or amusement, I shall never know – and stepped out onto the platform.

I straightened my shoulders and searched for him hidden in the throng of passengers.  I couldn’t find him, so I sat alone on the train, thinking about my stomach.  It hurt quite badly, but as the car rumbled on down the tracks, I could feel the pain move steadily up my chest.

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