cakes and heartbreaks

Beirut, January 13, 2016

As the world has been busy mourning the death of David Bowie for the past few days, manically sharing songs, photos, gifs, statuses, etc. I have been busy mourning the end of yet another one of my stories. 

Unlike the rest of the world however, I have never been a longtime fan of David Bowie's. At best I know two songs. One, the song ‘Heroes’ from that movie, ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’ and the other, ‘Life on Mars’ suggested as a tune I might enjoy on Spotify. David Bowie has also appeared to me in the shape of stolen flickers on blogs; he has always been very fashionable. I just never was a proper fan. 

But like most things that the world enjoys obsessing over, enjoys reminding everyone that they, too, have a voice, have a thought on the matter (e.g. the Paris attacks, Star Wars, Adele) his passing was taken by people as a chance to once again, turn the attention towards themselves, their thoughts, their position, their feelings. But such is the online existence in its eternal thirst for attention. Of course, many of the tributes were beautiful, and it is overwhelming to see the world speak of and remember the great artist that he was. I will stop being petty and judgemental now.

I am being petty and judgemental for a reason. Writing this, publishing it, is going to be very difficult. But I will do it, because there is no other possible way for me to say what is eating at me. (Am I also thirsting for attention? Maybe.)

I have been entertaining the idea of meeting someone online, for the past month or so. I went and developed an online a dating profile, named myself after a beloved book character that the majority of dating website regulars, I assumed, never would have heard of and welcomed the idea of meeting someone online. On the eve of the new year, as I was making a cake to take to my friend’s place, I was compelled to reply to one message, laden with grammatical mistakes but criticising my love for Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. One reply snowballed into non-stop texting followed by a meeting in real life and subsequently, by the inevitable heartbreak.

The cake, for which I used fresh and tasty ingredients, turned out pretty bad. The taste was okay, but it was all at once mushy and dry and embarrassing. Maybe this was a metaphor for what would happen next.

So the boy who disliked my liking of Plath never stopped texting me. Curious as I was, I texted back. It felt nice. We had quite a lot in common, apparently. We agreed to meet a few days later, and kept communicating meanwhile. The attention was very flattering but I just couldn’t allow myself to feel anything yet because I very well knew my history of falling in love with strangers. I did it with such ease and suffered for months when it turned out to be unrequited. 

So, we met on the day we had planned to meet. Before seeing him, I had convinced myself that he would be shorter in height, that he would be odd, that I would hate him, without the shadow of a doubt. But I didn't. I liked him very, very much. At last we saw each other, in our three dimensional dispositions. He commented that he was curious about how I sounded. I found that his voice was graver, richer than the one I had given him in my imagination. Then we started talking. I made sure to drink my tea immediately, so that my stupid, anxious mouth stopped being so dry. He made sure to sound interested. After the tea, we had hot chocolate, and he complained about the whipped cream on top. I didn't mind it at all. He told me he had read my blog, that he had enjoyed it. He called himself a dick for asking to meet me here, in this pub, as it was located in the basement of the building he worked in. I didn’t think much of it. I did, however, feel uncomfortable, being in a space where he knew everybody so well and I didn’t. But again, I didn’t let myself think much of it. What mattered was us, talking, getting to know each other. Afterwards, we went up to his office and looked at his collection of comic books. He handed me one, and said that I should hold on to it, and that I could give it back in person if I ever wanted to see him again. Of course, I eagerly replied in the affirmative. Yes, I wanted to see him again, I did. He was so clever and effusive and magnetic. I wanted to see him again. 

When I said that I had to leave, he walked me to my car, I told him I was very shy, almost to warn him that I didn’t want things to go fast. He told me he had been shy until the age of fifteen. I don't know why he mentioned it. But I think I saw it. I saw that somewhere in there hid the timid, sensitive boy that he was, that he might very well still be. He hugged me very tightly, and then made sure I got home safe. I was on a cloud. A fluffy, delicious cloud that hung high above the misery that I had gotten used to in love. I was smiling like the goofball that I was. But I kept reminding myself that it was just too good to be true. We did not talk the next day. The day after, he messaged me, asking if I wanted to meet him at his office, so we could work together. I said yes. 

I decided that I would go in the afternoon. That I wanted to spend my day on my own, reading and reflecting, and practicing the piano, precisely 'The Beautiful Blue Danube', which I was re-learning. And I did. Before leaving the house, I received a message from him. In it, he sounded slightly reproachful. He said that he still wanted me to come over but he had a meeting later on, that he couldn’t afford to waste all his time on me, almost. But I went to meet him, unfazed by the reproach I felt, which I pushed away. When we met, the attraction was there, the chemistry was there, at least that's what I thought. I wanted to be around him. We made tea, chatted for a while. He showed me some more books. I gave him one of my current favourite books to check out, and read aloud a picturebook to him. He seemed eager and sweet and lovely. I was beginning to like him even more. He told me that he was in a productive mood, so I left him to his work as I read the graphic novel that he wrote. I don’t know what compelled me to feel so safe in the company of this man, who still was a stranger.

I keep replaying what happened next in my head, because I still hardly believe that it happened.

He proposed I do this exercise, where I write a story, but in the duration of a half hour. I did. I normally resent such exercises, they confer on me a needless stress. I spent the first ten minutes thinking about how I could never be a proper writer if I did not perform well under such pressure. Then I recalled how I had talked about my grandfather earlier, and so I wrote about him. About the day they took his dead body away from home, and how I couldn’t stand to look at him laying in that coffin. A few minutes later, like a student in class, I announced that I had finished. He got up and came to sit next to me. I read it aloud for him. He asked me to read it again. So I read it again. Then everything happened so fast. His face got close and he kissed me. My very first kiss. My initial thought was that it was odd, beyond measure. It felt like an octopus had come at me from sea, here to lick and suck at my face. I didn’t know what kissing felt like, but that certainly did not feel good. I stopped him, asked him to pause awhile, tried to explain that I had never done this, ever. My mouth was dry and I felt silly and awkward. I didn’t know where to put my hands. I kept seeing him coming close to my face, his eyes closed and that scared me. Soon, I got used to the motion, I accepted it, looked forward to it, even. I knew that I wanted this. That I had been waiting for this moment forever. 

The next hour was a jumble of confusion, with sporadic moments of talking followed by making out. I tried to explain what I wanted out of this. I was in shock because he revealed to me at last, that though he was 'fond of me' he still mainly wanted sex. Which meant no taking things slow, no relationship, no cuddles as we watched a movie. Reeling from the surprise, I did not know what to say. He told me about his first kiss, then about the first time he slept with someone. He tried convincing me that sex was nothing, that being a virgin meant nothing.

Even now, as I try to clear my mind and utter my thoughts on the entire situation, I fail. I have given this whole topic a lot of thinking over the years. I used to think that saving myself for The One was what I have always wanted to do. Somehow, I still want to do that. But I don't believe in a single One. I believe in many Ones. In fact, I have fallen in love several times before, and no matter how short-lived those stories were, or how unrealistic or unfulfilled they were, they still were. These ephemeral tales, moments, feelings with would-be soulmates remain etched within my heart, memory (for the sake of cheese) forevermore. I knew that if I loved someone well enough, if I envisaged a certain future with them, that I wouldn't, didn't want to wait. My body was mine and mine alone, and I would choose to do whatever I wanted to do with it, whenever I wanted. I am now more aware of the difference between subscribing to the status quo (dictated by religion, and cultural traditions) that has accompanied me faithfully during all those years, determining 'right' versus 'wrong', and subscribing to my own decisions, based on my feelings, based on choices I have deliberated plentifully.

When he told me that he loved women so much, that he was a self-proclaimed pig, who wanted nothing more than to sleep with girls, I felt stupid. For expecting a bit more than I should have, for wanting to kiss him still, to be around him, still, against my better judgment. But I felt angry, as well. I couldn’t accept to be mocked for wanting a relationship, for wanting love –which in its own way, does exist– by somebody whose own views on love have been altered, twisted by previous events in his life. I couldn’t accept to be mocked for wanting love at the age of 26, when he, older in years and –in experience, no doubt– claimed to know that no such thing existed. That relationships were a myth. I just couldn’t. Especially when it seemed like his actions did little to hide the horny teenager within.

Still, I looked at him and my vision was fogged by the sexual tension between us. We danced and I was delirious. But I was not ready for sex yet and I made that clear. I do not regret my decision. I walked out at last, making sure to take the book I had given him to read, (in hindsight, perhaps too dramatically). He made no move to stop me. I explained that I couldn’t do this, that I would get attached and that I would be the one who would end up hurting while he found someone else to satisfy his cravings.

I walked back home at night but this time, he did not text me to make sure that I had got home safe. I felt bizarre. As though my innocence had been robbed from me. What innocence, though? I had willingly replied to his moves. I had wanted this. I had shed this innocence. But I had also wanted more. Something real, not just animal. Animal was real, too, but it was just too soon for that. I wasn't ready. I had barely known him for a few days. I kept telling myself that he would have tossed me away as soon as I had given him what he wanted. Well he disappeared anyway. He disappeared, leaving me a sad lump of restlessness.

When I got home that day, my mum was angry. Where had I been, she asked. To see him, I replied. She and my brother were getting ready to go to the hospital, where they had taken my elderly aunt. We went there, and all I could think of was octopus, pig. Octopus, pig. Pig, octopus. And how silly I had been to take away that book. I wanted to see him again. I really did.

My aunt has been at the hospital for over a week now. I stayed with her sparsely over the past few days, in the barren room that she has been occupying, angry at the world, angry at us. I sat in the sole chair in that room and watched her growl at me. My head was torn between my sadness over what she had become, and the hollowness inside my heart. I found it a very appropriate image, this fusion of both misfortunes. Later, I will remember those days at the hospital as the days that followed my first, ill-fated kiss. Later, I will remember the immeasurable sadness I felt as I sat in my chair, watching my aunt look away from me in obstinate childlike anger, as I fought the urge to think, to imagine, to want to be with him. The two complimented each other in pity and grief. Or in grief and pity.

So. As the world has been mourning David Bowie, I have been calmly coming to terms with the fact that I couldn't do anything for my ailing aunt, and with the fact that I was never again going to see the man who gave me my first kiss, despite my every wish to do so. Such was life.

My longing has not ceased, but there is anger as well, right now. Anger because this boy has been selfish enough to omit the real reason he wanted to meet me. Anger, because he led me on, when he could have stated his motive back when I did not care for him and spared me the energy and the heartbreak. Anger because against all reason, against all logic, I still wanted to see him.

But as with most wounds, nothing takes the pain away better than cake. Making it and eating it. So yesterday, I made a flourless orange chocolate pudding cake, failing miserably at fluffing the SIX egg whites I whisked relentlessly. But it tasted nice. And that was a relief. It is going to have to do for the time being.

Sarah.