Pretty Fucking Please?

“Did you do something with your hair? It looks like you kinda did … you did right? It used to be all, I don’t know, wavy, somewhat curly. Right? It looks like it is more straight now … and wait … is it correct to say more straight or is it supposed to be straighter? And straighter? Is that how you say it? Straighter? Is that even a word? I don’t know. Anyway … how … how have you been?”

So that was a no-brainer, I was over-compensating for the damage by doing the awkward talk and she said, “Really? You called me all the way here to talk about my hairdo?”

I sagged in the chair. On my way to the coffee shop, I had already had an entire, fuck this, fuck that, fuck you conversation with myself, but as soon as I saw her, I, by the very own default nature of mine, wanted to be nice; give her a hug, ruffle her hair, tell her she is beautiful and all that. Basically, my feeling was: hello? Can we end this already? It is too much for me to handle, plus, I kinda, sorta, miss you.

bad-date-girl-disgusted-with-boy

And after the long pause and more awkwardness, she decided to flinch her eyebrows, which I thought was an inappropriate reflex and also somewhat late in arrival. And then she removed her glasses, placed it on the table and said, “So when was the last time you’d actually noticed my hair?”

“Always”, I said, “I always noticed your hair. And you know that’s true. See, I could tell the difference even now. I can tell that you did something to it. You see, if I had never noticed your hair before, how do you think, I would have been able to tell the difference now?”

“But can you?” She said.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Can you tell exactly, what is different with my hair?” she said.

“Not exactly, exactly. But I –”

“Stop it” she cut me off, “don’t even try.”

“Now, hold on a second”, I barked, “This is what the problem is. You never let me complete what I am trying to say. You don’t ‘even let me –”

“Is that the problem? Really?” She shouted mid-way, which I thought was so funny, because she was only proving my point.

“Isn’t it?” I said.

“No it isn’t” She said, and did this thing, where she hammered the table with her purse. The coffee cup bounced like its base was made out of a spring. It went like, I don’t know, somewhat like, toing toing toing. And it soaked her shades kept on the table. Big ones.

“God! Since when did you start wearing these kind of retro shades? Aren’t they too big for your face?” I said.

“Maybe”, she said, “But they cover my whole face from all the dust and the pollution outside.”

“Might as well get a helmet then?” I said.

She chuckled for a bit. I smiled too. I could tell she hated me for making her smile. She did not want to smile. She was too uptight and proud for a smile in these times.

“Look”, she said and gathered herself. Brought that uncaring, cold, go-fuck yourself, face back on and whispered through her teeth, “I don’t know what is going on with you anymore, and just so you know, we both have been through this before, but in case your slow ass has forgotten it, let me remind you one more time, that you, my dear, are an angry person. You like to shout and nag and then you also like to throw things around. And I am not OKAY with that. You understand?”

“Interesting you brought that up, and I wanted to tell you that I only threw that mug away because it had a hole at the bottom. I saw that. You probably did not. But I did. ” I said.

“And why is that Interesting?” She said.

“What do you mean? It’s just a way of saying it”, I said.

“And how so?”

“It just is.”

I took a long sip of my coffee and made one of those, left over bubbles in the straw sounds. It was a loud sound. She was pissed off. But of course, that sound could piss anyone off, shit, even I was a little pissed off by it. It’s a mental disorder; misophonia they call it, I think.

“And how it just is?” She said. She was losing it. I could tell.

I kept quiet and stared dead in her eyes.

“What?”

I took one more long drag, waited for a few more seconds and said, “So we have been through this a lot of times huh? And you wanted this to be the last one. Right?” When I called you.

“Yes.” She said and “Your point is?”

“My point?” I said, “My point is, that how come we never talked about what your problem is?

How come we never said, that you, are an unresponsive jerk. You, don’t know, how to communicate? You, think, I shall assume everything on my own, about what you are thinking and what you mean. What am I? A shrink? A fortune teller? Clairvoyant? A fucking Tarrot card reader?

You know I am none of those. Because, I don’t have a crystal ball. I am not wearing a goat head, neither have I charged fees for my sessions thus far. You did not walk in to my room, with a dramatic effect and left my door ajar”, I said.

“There we go again, with your weird ass analogies and anecdotes.” She said. “Can’t you, for once, for the love of god, say one thing, the way you are supposed to say it? God you suck!”

I felt angry. But she had a point. So I kept quiet. She kept quiet. We both were quiet for what seemed like a good solid dog year.

“Look, when I say things loudly, it doesn’t really mean I am angry at you for doing something wrong. It doesn’t mean I am angry at you. Shit, it doesn’t even mean I am angry. It simply means, I have an opinion that I am deeply passionate about and I want you to hear it and maybe agree to it. That’s all. But hey, you can disagree all you want. That will never be a disappointment. But what frustrates me, is when you don’t talk to me. When you just go quiet. When your lips don’t move. When your face suggests me, that you saw a ghost. Maybe in me? Maybe behind me? Fuck, I don’t know. I can never decipher. So please, can we just agree, on one basic thing, that, you will communicate whatever it is that you are feeling. At least to me? You don’t have to blog about it. And I am not asking you to update those “feeling angry, feeling happy” posts on Facebook either, because, let’s be honest, that’s stupid and immature. I am just asking you to talk to me about the way you really feel? All the time. Can you do that? Please? Pretty fucking please?”

And then she closed her eyes.

“Shit it’s working” I thought, did a happy dance in my head. Popped up a cheap champagne, mostly because I was on a budget and also because I don’t like champagne that much.

Her face had turned red and her nose was flickering in a way, that it suggested me, that she was either going to cry or needed a bear hug or an ice-cream or both, plus some unicorns and koala bears and puppies, but, man, could have I been more wrong?

She picked up that black phone of hers and did something on it and soon, as if in a haste, called someone, and the way she sputtered through it in her awful Hindi, harshly and ungratefully, using wrong gender pronouns, I could tell, she was talking to her UBER driver.

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