[ON HOLD] LOVE ME LIKE ART

8

I'VE LET MY LOVE life be an experiment. It has me standing in the midst of grass fields under the afternoon dusk, waiting for her. The yes I clawed out of my throat when my Mum asked is torn with regret.

And flecks of hope.

Regret because people rarely change. The same Emily Wu that was in and out of my house when we were younger is the same one that exists. She isn't more palatable, more understanding like my mum might suggest.

And the hope that sits in my chest is because maybe Emily Wu isn't big and bad but docile, forgiving?I don't know if I'm about to fall down the throes of something that might sprout into something good and lifelong when I've been chasing blind alleys. Or whether it is going to be a painful descent into old wounds that will leave me with more than a scarlet battle scar. I'm not sure where this shred of confidence comes from, but it would be nice for Emily to prove me wrong. To watch a new dawn be heralded in instead of a sunset of dark tomorrows.

Emily emerges out of the grassy corner. I haven't seen her since I was 19. Do we hug or... remain where we are? The distance we're standing in is almost an ode to what we feel.

Emotionally distant.

Physically, too.

Her eyes are a stony-green, the colour of envy and her lips are pursed in. "Was it your idea to come out here or... my mum's?" Her first word isn't to greet but a question meant to antagonise, to ruffle and maybe to threaten. And I know from that moment on that she's come in the mood I expect. Moody, battling and a little curt. This isn't going to be a docile catch up but a catch up filled with her venom.

"Mine." I clear the wind out of my throat. "I thought it would be cool if we walked through the fields and caught up?"

"Right." She chews that word, "You could've asked me what I wanted to do instead of telling my Mum to tell me to meet you here." Her bottom lip curls in a shut-out way that is so visceral, the trees dance to her indignation as it builds. "I would've told you to meet me at Bacchus if you wanted to talk."

"Emily, I'm trying here." I almost forcefully beg as I zip up my gilet. We're two grown adults being matchmaked by our mothers. For reasons that no doubt differ from each other. As a man, I hate that this is my wound, my bandage, my venom.

Does Emily think I want to be here? That I want to be this punching bag so that she can get her shots off? I don't.

"As am I." She carps under her breath and I hear every strum, every decibel in this forested apse. She kneads a patch of mud that has made its way on to her blue jeans from the hike up here. She shows more concern for that speckle of dirt than to anything I have to say. "Let's just walk, Zach."

And I want to hit her with the same verbal spew she's giving me but there's no point. Instead, I say. "Sure. Watch out for the thorns." I warn, as we pad through the grassy forest.

"Thanks." But, her reply is soaked with ingratitude and the leaves lash at the sound of her voice.

"So," The silence almost feels like its pulling and for reasons already stated, I hate it. It isn't the type of silence that envelops lovers or even friends, but it's a discomforted silence that feels so fucking heavy. "How have you been?"

"Fine, and you?"

"Yeah, I'm g–" As I'm about to answer, her shout pierces the veil. Her shouts aren't because of a grizzly animal she's encountered or fear that has built into a crescendo as we navigate through the clump of bushes. It's because of something so inane, so stupid.

"They're ruined." She caterwauls almost like she is grieving, "My boots ARE ruined!!" She looks at them mournfully, like life has been stabbed away by the mud.