Alexis

Sikhismo, Buddismo e Baci Arancioni

"I'm sorry," he apologized as my back was turned to him. I didn't respond. I walked over to my bookshelf, putting the books that were on my desk back in their places. "Alexis?" he called. "Did you hear me? I said I'm sorry," he said.

I turned after I slid one book back. "Yeah, I heard you. You're sorry. So what? Oh, I'm sorry I said that, I just needed to hurt you because you hurt me— whatever," I shrugged, reminding myself to keep in my inner emo thoughts. "You're sorry. Okay. That doesn't mean I have to forgive you just because you're sorry. Sure, you are forgiven because it doesn't matter to me anymore but that doesn't mean I'm going to start things right back as they were," I said. I think my sentences conflicted and that made me slightly ticked. I was trying to work on my communication. "You said my Italian was bad, okay, fine. In America, you can say that. Freedom of speech even though you're not an American citizen, whatever. And you're forgiven, whatever, but you saying sorry isn't going to make me speak to you in Italian. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Vincent pressed his lips together. I studied his face for a second. Did he do something different to his eyebrows? They looked neater. "No. If you forgive me, why you no speak to me?" he asked. His accent was so heavy in that sentence. I knew what he meant. Of course, I got used to his language mistakes a long time ago. "You spoke to me after I said that, in Italian!"

I sighed. Patience. "I know I did. I had a change of heart," I shrugged. 'You are allowed to say I'm not good at Italian. Yes. Did it bother me, sure? Are you forgiven? Sure. You're allowed to speak your mind. Am I going to speak to you in Italian? No."

"That makes no sense!" he exclaimed and I noted that he was getting frustrated. Recently, I've been having these flashes of character depth. Not mine, but others as if I was an author and I was creating them. Or, rather, as if I was in their mind. In their shoes. Understanding their thought process. Right now, it seemed as if Vincent didn't understand what I was saying. It was confusing him like foreign languages confuse English-speaking Americans. Just as I was confused when that Spanish teacher spoke to me. I could understand some parts because Italian and Spanish were similar, and both love languages, but I didn't understand her whole sentence. I felt that was partly going on here.

"If you forgive me then why won't you speak to me?" he demanded.

Oh, yes. He was frustrated. I know that tone of voice from him. When his accent gets heavier and his words are just a bit harsher and more exasperated.

"Because I don't want to," I finally said and turned around to put away another book. "Right now, I don't want to. If in the future, I change my mind then I will but as of now, no. I don't want to," I said.

"But you talk to Tito?" he said. I closed my eyes for a second, my back to Vincent. I sighed, my shoulders rising and falling, as I opened my eyes.

"Are you listening to me, Vincent?" I asked as I turned around. He stepped closer to me. I moved my eyes so they stayed on his.

"Yes. You make no fuckin' sense," he angrily said.

"Tito doesn't insult me," I said. "when I speak to him, which isn't often. I already told you— I'm not speaking to you in Italian. If my mind ever changes, then whatever. It is what it is. What will be, will be," I calmly said.

"No, no," he shook his head. "You spoke to me after I said that. You spoke to me in Italian."

I held back a sigh and repeated myself. "I had a change of heart," I shrugged.

He furrowed his brows and frowned the way men do when they grow defeated and bothered. I turned back around to focus on my books. I slid the last book into my arms in place. My eyes traveled over my books. My eyes caught the red spine.