I Remember, Part 2

“But you said I smiled.”

We were sitting by the harbour in the sunshine, and the question had been bothering me for a while. I had put my shoes and socks neatly beside me and was dangling my legs beside his over the edge.

“Not a very happy smile, though,” he replied. “I wish we had a bit more information.”

We had played the “I would say that if” game all afternoon, and got nowhere, partly because I couldn’t be honest. I can only really think of one possible reason that an older version of myself might say something like that. I don’t think I would have caused him pain, because it wouldn’t have led me to smile when I saw him young again. I think he must have died. I can imagine that I might be a coward in grief, that I might wish him away entirely rather than cope with seeing his stuff lying around everywhere. But I didn’t want to admit it. James is an open and brave man, and I couldn’t admit to such a failure of heart. I like to think it is just a moment of weakness that sends me into the past, and that afterwards I learn to reconcile myself to the pain, but I don’t know. Now, with all this potential knowledge of him in front of me, I can’t wish him away. So I know two things: one, that I loved him enough to find his memory unbearable, and two, that we never have children. I’m sure, my God, I hope, that I’d never be so selfish as to wish them out of existence.

But this is mad! We’ve known each other two weeks, and already I’m planning our lives for us. I don’t even know if he feels like sticking around with me. He told me last night that he wants to keep in touch just out of curiosity. But then, he believes, I think, that I really was tricking myself, and setting off a happy train of events.

I’ll say this for that argument: If I loved him as completely as I think I might come to, I’d savour every instant, because I’m so aware of the ending.

*****

Right, it’s the evening now, and I told him what I really thought. It was probably a stupid thing to do, but we were drunk and it was dusky and summer and warm, and I felt so happy that I just wanted to be as open with him as I could possibly be, and that was my only secret. It’s not the only thing he doesn’t know, but it’s the only thing I actually hadn’t told him.

We’d just been dancing to some jazz at a little mini-festival they hold here every year. He dances in a sort of ironic way until he forgets to be cool, and then he’s much better – sort of fluid and unassuming. My skin was still hot from the sun. And I told him the truth because it seemed so important. He laughed at me. It was a fantastic relief to hear him laugh at what I’d been so sure would make him walk away. I thought he’d say: “Well, if that’s how much love is worth to you, then maybe that’s why you had the sense to scare me off you.” But he didn’t.

He said: “I thought you had something on your mind! Look, think how determined you were to find out all about this when I told you. You won’t even let a conversation go until it’s resolved. You’d never have walked away from a set-up like this. And you know it.”

“But I didn’t go back in time to myself. I went back to you. Maybe that’s why – I thought you’d stay away altogether.”

“No way. If you knew me as well as we’re assuming, you wouldn’t think that. I’d never give up on even the chance of this. Well, you know, the chance of something like she was talking about.”

I realised then that we’d both basically been assuming we were together now, and that was it.

There was a moment of real awkwardness, and then I broke it.

“Would you care to dance?” I said. He would.


Hmmm. Possibly this is an illustration of what happens when I don't write a plan. Ah, well! :-)