Roger Morris – ‘Not
love’
It
was not love, never love I felt for him. It was a passing curiosity. A kind of
wondering what if. Not love, not ever, not once. Not love.
My
life was ordered and reasonable. I lived without extremes. I lived without
excitements. I liked to feel the edges of my life around me, within my reach.
I found it comforting. To know my limits and live within them.
My
life was wild and unpredictable. I thrived on change. I thrived on risk. I
liked to shake things up, to shock. I needed no one, only things. It was
exhilarating.
I
never dreamt that I would meet someone like her. I never dreamt. There was no
room in my closed life for dreams, in my closed heart. I never dreamt. I did
not dream.
I
dreamt I was an arsonist. It frightened me at first, the dream. But then I saw
it was just myself I feared.
Everyday.
I used to go to the same cafe every day. Everyday at the same hour. I would
sit at the same place. It had to be the same chair at the same table,
everyday. I would order a coffee and read a paperback while I waited.
Everyday.
I had to have a new experience everyday. I became adept at provocation. It
will come as no surprise to learn I studied for the stage. And whatever I did,
I was always an actress.
The
waiters knew me. They knew my name, they knew the way I liked my coffee. We
had a little ritual. They would always wait for me to order. Never bring it
without asking.
I
can't explain it. Why one day I wandered into this cafe. His cafe. I took a
seat at one of the tables. His table. His seat. Don't ask me why.
One
day the sun will die. This is a
certainty. I know it will happen
and have allowed for it. So too I
had prepared myself for this. That
one day there would be someone sitting there.
I did not say a word. I
hardly hesitated. I made no fuss.
So how she knew, I cannot say.
He
was rooted to the spot. His mouth
was gaping. His eyes swam.
He seemed to quiver at the knees.
It was obvious what the situation was.
He didn't need to say a word.
-
Is this your seat? - she
said. I didn't answer.
-
I've been keeping it warm for you, - I said.
I was teasing him. I take
things in you see, and can't help responding.
And yes, I do move quickly. From
one emotion to the next.
She
got up. And made a play of
dusting the seat. There was
something practised and grandiose about her movements.
It came as no surprise later to learn that she had studied for the
stage.
-
It really isn't necessary, - he said.
He seemed ashamed. And for
a moment I was sorry for him. Temporarily tender hearted.
But I do move quickly. Nothing
ever lasts with me. Now his
weakness was only provocation.
But
she insisted. Until there was
nothing for it. To avoid a scene,
I took the seat and felt how quickly and expertly she had made a fool of me.
And
so it started. Somehow it all
started then.
You
can look in the mirror every day and not see yourself. Then someone comes
along. That's how it starts, desire. In the shock of seeing what you are not,
you are yourself revealed. Stripped bare. And so the most intimate moment is
the first.
The
thing you never see is your own power. The only proof you have it's there is
the helplessness of others.
Of
course, the only natural thing to do with desire is deny it.
I
could see that he was rattled. Yes, rattled by my presence. Like a pea on a
drum skin, rattled. And if I beat too hard he would fly away. Poor little pea.
I
was not afraid of her. I didn't want her to think I was afraid of her.
I
beat the drum lightly, lightly. And watched him jump.
But
I was afraid of something.
Jump,
jump, jump. And then, at last, he flew.
That
was it. I'd had enough. She'd got to me.
I
was only teasing. But this one had never been teased before.
That
was it. The end. I'd never see her again. Why should I care? I didn't care. I
told myself I didn't care.
He
was gone. The game was over before it was begun. And I surprised myself by
feeling disappointed. I finished my coffee and wondered. What was his name?
Where did he live? What did he do? But most of all, what if? What if he hadn't
run away? Or what if I came back tomorrow?
Outside,
the world seemed less than I remembered it. But there was no going back. She
was gone. And all the doors she opened had been shut again. It was then, when
I took the measure of my grief, that I realised I wanted her. That was the
second shock. Yes. She'd got to me. The
third shock came the following day. She
was there again. Just when I had
resigned myself to the loss of her and to the loss of all she promised.
She came back. It seemed a
miracle.
It
was just a whim. He was oddly
attractive. Or just odd perhaps.
I wanted to get to the bottom of him.
Of his oddness.
She
came back. Remember that.
She came back. I cannot be blamed for all that happened after.
I cannot be blamed for any of it.
She came back.
The
flowers, the phone calls, the letters.
She
came back. Remember that.
The
all night vigils outside my window.
No
one asked her to.
The
pornographic items sent through the post.
I
cannot be blamed.
The
abuse, the death threats, the bruises and the broken jaw.
She
came back. I cannot be blamed for
any of it.
That's
what I got for my curiosity. He
took away my life.
She
came back and turned me inside out.
It
was not love, never love I felt for him. It was a passing curiosity. A kind of
wondering what if. Not love, not ever, not once. Not love.
It was not love, never love I felt for her. It was desire, longing, need, hunger, addiction, fear, hatred, contempt, despair. And afterwards, after everything, I remember panic. But not love, not ever, not once. Not love.