Beatrice, for whatever reason, I cannot know why: "I love you."
Me, foolishly: "Really? That warms my heart!"
Beatrice, cold: "What?"
Me, as before: "Yeah! What, should I not be excited?"
Beatrice.
Me, with no idea what just happened: "Bea, what?"
Beatrice, angry: "You didn't say it back!"
Me, trying to control my tone: "Of course not."
Beatrice, explosive: "What the h---?"
Me, controlling better now: "Beatrice, it's not a competition. I'm not trying to win our relationship."
Beatrice, acerbic: "I said I love you, and you don't say it back?"
Me, worried: "How much would it mean, Bea, if I just said it by reflex? How much would it mean if I said it because I felt like I had to return your statement? How much would it mean if I let you define the pace of my emotion? How much would it mean if I just said whatever I thought would make you happy? How much would it mean if I lied for a good cause?"
Beatrice, terse: "It would mean you loved me."
Me, tired: "Of course. Of course."
Beatrice, growing now, larger than life, larger than the room she's in, larger than the Beatrice I've known for years and known for what seems like ten seconds now: "I'm not stupid, Terrence. It wouldn't be magic. But you're afraid of the word. You're afraid of the thought. You're afraid of the need. You won't let go and throw yourself into a relationship with me, but you're willing to let me throw myself at you until I break myself like a wave on the immovable shore. And I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid. I know that's what's going on here, but you know what, Terry? You know what? I'm willing to try you anyway. I'm willing to risk, because I think you're worth it and we're worth it and we deserve a chance, and I'm about fed up to here with you backing out and running away and walling yourself off. I don't give a d--- who hurt you or who you still feel for or what haunts your steps or what crawls through your dreams. I don't care, Terry, because I should be worth more to you than that. Because I'm alive, and here, and now. I'm immediate. I'm real."
Me, silently:
Beatrice, with winter in her voice: "If you're not willing to at least give me that chance, then I guess I'll just keep loving you. Because that's how it works, Terrance. When you find the right one, she doesn't just run away because you're inconvenient.
Me, crying:
Beatrice, like the sound of a January sun: "Stop lumping me in with her."
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Hmm. This doesn't end the way most people think it should have.
ReplyDeleteThen again, it doesn't really end; rather, it has a stopping point. It's the stopping point I was hoping for.
I hope no one has ever said that to you, Robby, or to anyone, although I know someone probably said it to someone somewhere.
ReplyDeleteIt's all wrong. By this I mean the anger at not being told "I love you" back. Because love is not-- I don't know if I can figure out how to say this properly. Love is not about being loved. I mean, if you really love someone, you want what is best for that person, and what is best for you takes a lower place. And you know what, the forgetting of oneself is very freeing. It's like breathing in air after swimming underwater too long.
The part where Beatrice keeps loving-- right, good, real love is more like that. And she was honest, and that is good. But she shouldn't have been angry that "I love you" didn't get an immediate "I love you" in return.
Well, they're both trying to manipulate the other. It's what humans do, whether they mean to or not.
ReplyDeleteYes, people manipulate each other.
ReplyDeleteBut people who actually love each other . . . well, I suppose they're still human.
Interestingly, something very like this happened on *30 Rock.*
ReplyDeleteOh, so? It seems likely. It's a well-written show.
ReplyDeleteIt is.
ReplyDelete