All she wanted to do was lie close to me and fall asleep. I cared enough to want to share bits of her life, her walks, and her falls. I just could not give myself. Even with the distance, I felt it would be wrong to lead her on.
We had never met. I have still not understood: why me? She empathised with the verbal gashes, the pus, the exposed flesh and soul, but is it enough to build a dream on?
She sometimes dreamed about me.
We spoke long hours over the phone and invariably when she came to the bit about wanting closeness, I’d pretend or change the subject or smile…a smile she heard.
Occasionally, we fought when she thought I was being patronising, when I said I understood.
We fought if I mentioned men. And when I told her that most of my friends too are men, she had snapped, “You are so pathetically homophobic that you won’t even talk to women.”
That was not true.
She knew it.
Was it love? Was it lust? Was it just an echo in the lonely mountain tops she climbed?
She did not need me; she had plenty of women who wanted her.
Once I had asked her, “How do you know if a woman if gay?”
“It is in the eyes. When you look, there is a stare back that is very intense.”
She had not looked into my eyes.
I imagine that the words I have trampled upon look in turn with disdain and despair as they get covered with dust. They probably appear like hazel irises swimming in white sheets of paper.
My words become eyes?