Talking to Tamara

Jul 25, 2006

We sat on the floor, feet curled up on the velvet cushions. The glass table was filled with bowls of pop corn, a white wine spritzer (for her), pineapple juice (for me), Marie Claire magazine, and a bunch of chick flick DVDs.
We had 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding on', and we both loved the lines about "Bourtoukalis" and "The man may be the head of the house, but the woman is the neck". We laughed at the Greek father, as we both shared fathers who would use the same line: "I want to see my grandchildren; who knows how long I have to live?"

Every five minutes, we'd have to pause the film because we'd get caught up in our conversation. .
Our hands were wrapped around our pop corn bowls, hers untouched, mine almost empty. When I wasn't talking, I'd stuff my mouth full of popcorn, not much time to breathe, talk/stuff,talk/stuff,talk/stuff. You could say I was in denial.

"Of course it will hurt when he leaves," she told me, "Trust me, I've been there, and I knew when he left that it would take me not weeks, not months, but years to get completely over him..." She paused to think about it.
"Actually, I don't know if I've ever got over him," she said, "I know that I've come to accept it, but I don't think... she drifted off.
"You're not helping," I said flatly between mouthfuls of pop corn, "You're supposed to make me feel better."

We tried to watch the movie again. We tried chatting about mindless gossip. I went into my room and called him up, but that only made matters worse.
I hung up, outside, Tamara laughed on the phone to her boyfriend, while I sat staring at my toenails, wishing I could get a pedicure, wondering what I'd do without him.

She told me about Dominic, about how three weeks of intense love left her undone for eight years later, and I understood her: the first time I had ever fallen in love was almost the same.
Hers and mine were both charismatic, tall and handsome artists, who walked into a room and made everyone fall in love with them.
"I felt like I was dating a celebrity," I told her, "I was always standing behind him, watching the way people melted when he talked to them. And I saw the way girls would take one look at me, and wonder what someone as amazing as him was doing with me."

We remembered forgotten summers in silence, I traced my finger across the glass table and thought of how our lives have followed the same heartbreak, the same frustration of wanting it to be over, willing the pain to go, but never quite letting it.

He was someone I had loved; and it took me two years to get over him.
Two years of guilt and hurt and enigmatic words written, comparing every boy I met and realising they never measured up, yet that and him was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the man I love now.

Tamara tried to comfort me, and if there hadn't been a glass table between us, I know she would have put her arms around me.
"You're a strong girl, you'll get through it," she told me, as I stuffed more pop corn into my mouth, "You'll keep yourself busy, and he'll be back for Christmas."

I know what I'll do to keep myself busy. I will work late at the office, take extra shifts that no one else wants, go back to the gym and work my body ruthlessly on the treadmill, buy expensive shoes, cut my hair short, come home late to an empty room and turn off the lights before I have time to break down. Try to sleep but stare at the dark ceiling. I now have time to take Italian classes but I never get around to it, eat breakfast standing at the table, no time to sit down and think. Anything to keep me from remembering him every minute of the day.

I will see him online and know that I can't run to his house to feel his arms around me.
I will ask him about his day and have no idea what or who he is talking about. He will have new friends, new jokes, new favourite pizza toppings, new smells to come home with. Maybe he'll start drinking coffee. Maybe he'll get a tattoo, or that cowboy suede jacket he was always joking about.

Maybe he'll have breakfast with his college friends at Egg-Spectations every Wednesday morning before class, order blueberry pancakes and remember that very first time we ate at Lucille's together, where I dripped maple syrup all over my shirt and he became fascinated with my lips.

Maybe one day, when it gets too much to bear, I will go over to his mother's place, she will let me play with his cat, and maybe I will sneak into his basement, stand in the dark room and remember that night we danced in circles to no music, and maybe if I've lost all willpower to fight a battle against myself, I will reach inside his cupboard, pull out a shirt and sink my face into it.
One day, I will start to lose his smell, I will reach out for anyone in the crowded room, flirt cruelly with men I'd never have given a second glance to, laugh loudly, all the time carrying this heavy feeling that stays now in me, no matter how Tamara tries to comfort me.

We watched the rest of the film, Vanessa came over with more spritzer, Mariam barged in with wonderful stories about Frenchmen and designer dresses, and we laugh about who would be Carrie if we were in 'Sex and The City'. Vanessa bought cookies, Tamara broke into a rap song, Mariam offered to buy us all Sushi, but she was a little tipsy so we didn't take her offer seriously, and I love them all.

But in my room, sitting on the bed and listening to their laughter in the living room, I scribbled onto a paper:
'I don't think I can do this. I'm not ready for my heart to be broken again.'