"Do you think that I should learn German?"
It takes me aback for a moment. That's kind of out of nowhere isn't it?
Jeremy was being incredibly talkative. He's taking a week long break from radiotherapy, which Dr Charlotte said was to 'rest the cells.' His voice was still a tiny bit croaky, but he could speak without it hurting much, and he was definitely making the most of that. He insisted on making both of us cereal, so I just sat awkwardly at the dining table waiting for him to finish, but Jeremy's physically incapable of multitasking, so this cereal so far has taken thirty minutes at least.
Now, back to his unprompted question: Should he learn German? "I mean, if you want to—"
"Or maybe Spanish. Or French. Oh, what about Yiddish? Hebrew's my native language so maybe that'll make Yiddish easier to learn, right? Isn't Afrikaans pretty easy too? What about, uh..."
"Why do you want to learn a language all of a sudden?"
"Well, uh. Y'know," he scratches his neck awkwardly, "Like, y'know.. aren't guys that can speak German like sexy or something? Like if I spoke German would you think I was hot?"
"German is quite possibly the least sexy language in the world," I say, "And c'mon. Hebrew's a fine language. It's soft and gentle, it fits you! German is kinda brash, don't you think?"
"You just insulted an entire country, Michael!" He shoves the milk back in the fridge, "I don't know, I just... I want to speak three languages. I don't know why. I just want to."
"So you want to learn German?"
"No, no, too many articles," he pouts, getting the spoons from a cabinet, which, knowing this family, it was probably called the spoon cabinet, "What about Afrikaans? Afrikaans only has one article and that's 'die' and I can live with that. And it has Germanic roots. What about Afrikaans, what do you think of that?"
"You can seriously do whatever you want."
"No, I want your input, c'mon."
"Sounds great, Jerm, but we live thousands of miles away from South Africa. The chance that you'll find an Afrikaans class or any native Afrikaans speakers here is pretty slim."
"Doesn't matter, it has one article and that's all I care about," he finally starts actually physically pouring the cereal, "And I already know like... a little bit. Like... uh... 'Ek is lief vir jou!' That means I love you! My pronunciation is kinda fucked, but we'll work on it, right?"
Jeremy places both of the cereal bowls on the dining table, and there's some unresolved tension in the air. It's unlike Jeremy to be so spontaneous like that, to just randomly decide an entirely new hobby out of nowhere. And he knows that I know something isn't right. I can tell by how every now and then he glances at my facial expression, almost as if he's monitoring my reaction.
We stay quiet for a moment.
"Jeremy, what's the real reason you want to learn a language?"
"I don't want to die knowing only two languages."
I roll my eyes, "There it is again."
"Don't roll your eyes at me like that! You... you know this is hard for me, and, and—" he sighs, "I just want to... I want to make sure I make the most of my life, y'know?" he mumbles, "What if I die knowing only two languages? I don't have any talents either. I can't draw, I can't dance, I can't write, I don't do great academically no matter how hard I try, I can play some piano, but barely, and the only reason I know piano is because I'm Jewish, what if I die knowing absolutely nothing? Can you imagine that? Raising a child only for them to accomplish nothing? God, my dad probably hates me—"
"I get it, but you're not going to die. Jeremy, your radiotherapy's almost done, and after that you'll have neoadjuvant treatment, you'll be okay."
"I-I know, but... I don't know. It's like Schrödigner's cat. I either die or I live, and I need to plan for both outcomes."
"I think you're being paranoid."
"Well, that's easy for you to say. It's not like you're the one with—one with cancer," he sucks the air through his teeth, "My voice being kinda croaky and my throat being sore doesn't bother me, it's just... I don't know, I feel like I can feel my body just deteriorating."
I breathe out and try to assess the situation. Jeremy's right. I don't have cancer. But I have common sense. And that common sense is telling me that Jeremy's going to be okay. that Jeremy's going to be happy, that Jeremy's going to grow old, that Jeremy's going to have lots and lots of time to learn new languages, that I'll have Jeremy in my arms for as long as I live, that I'll—
But I don't have anxiety.
And I think that what Jeremy's anxiety is telling him is polar opposite to what my common sense is hinting at.
I inch my hand over to his, and I momentarily rub my thumb over his knuckles in silence.
We stay like that for a while.
"I'm sorry. I feel like we can't have a conversation without me shoehorning death in there somewhere. I... I even said myself I didn't want to feel bad for myself, but... just look at me now," he laughs tearily. "I don't know. I'm not... I wasn't all there. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore."
"It's okay."
"I'm just really stupid. It must be a chore to just even talk to me. I don't know why you put up with me."
"It's okay."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
He sighs and leans back in his chair slightly, hiding his face behind his hands.
"It really is okay."
"No. No, it isn't." He removes his hands, stands up, and pushes his chair in, "It's not fair that you have to put up with my whining and my self-pity over something you can't control. You shouldn't have to... you shouldn't have to put up with me like that, Michael."
"Jeremy, really, I don't mind. You're practically legally obligated to complain, you have cancer, it's okay. I don't mind. I really do love you."
"Are you... are you sure? B-because, like, I don't want you to feel... to feel... trapped?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want you to feel trapped in this relationship at all, like, if you don't want to date me anymore, I really get it!" he sends me a shaky smile, "I don't mean that in like a... a self-deprecating way or anything, I just, uhm..."
"Jeremy, I love you."
"Are... are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I... okay..." he bites his lip, "Okay! I, uh, I really love you too. I'm sorry for getting so paranoid all the time. It must be getting pretty old at this point," he laughs a bit.
"I'll never get tired of you, promise," I push in my chair next to his, walk over to him, and hold my hands out. "Hug?"
His arms snake around my neck and he buries his head in my shoulder. I rest my hands on his hips and subtly sway him side to side, "It's okay."
"I know it is."
"I love you."
He sighs, "I know you do, but... but you don't have to. No one's forcing you to."
"But I want to. I care about you."
"Isn't that a waste of time?"
"Not to me. Not if it's you."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Hey Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you too."