Chapter Six #3
“I just hope they had as much fun as we did,” I say. “I hope they had someone to share it with, too.” I glance across the car at Martin, who’s turned my way.
“Someone to share it with,” he repeats to himself slowly, settling into a smile that I catch only out of the corner of my eye.
“Thanks for coming with me today. It really means a lot.”
I think he’s still smiling, but I’m obligated to watch the road, so I’m not sure. As for me, I can’t stop.
After our adventures in clothing today, there are so many things I want to ask him. There are so many things I want to ask myself. But, instead, I just let the gentle hum of the truck, and the warmth of his presence, be all the answers I need for now.
The page is wadded up in a tight ball, becoming tighter and tighter as I compress it between my hands. It switches from hand to hand and I can’t stop wringing it tighter, the muscles of my arms flexing. My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
The journal, with its now-missing page, sits on the couch beside me, along with the pen.
I don’t know what is happening to me, and making the perfect paper-wad doesn’t seem to be helping. I chuck it across the room with a groan, and slump down into the couch, grabbing my head, exhaling.
What am I doing?
I had sat down to write about my thrift store together-separately date and, as usual, had decided to just word-dump. Unedited and unfiltered. Just stream of consciousness. Then I’d read what I had written.
And then I’d converted it into the world’s tightest paper wad, which is now settling into the carpet across the room.
What I had written was all about Martin. About the clothes he tried on, the surprise in his eyes when he looked at me, the clothes he thought he felt silly in.
Why am I writing to my secret person about Martin?
I can’t get several images out of my head: the flexing muscles in Martin’s skin-tight shirt, Martin leaping through the store with a fedora in his hand, his smile as he placed it on my head.
It all seems so natural and perfect, but the whole thing was pretend.
He was pretending to be a flex-monster, I was pretending I wear fedoras, and we were pretending that this was our life together. But it all felt so real.
I can’t process the feeling I have about our friendship.
I can’t imagine thrift storing without him.
If I had gone by myself, I would’ve just been self-conscious and reserved, but with Martin there the world around had disappeared and I had stretched myself in ways I couldn’t anticipate.
And him, too. I can still see his bulging biceps in light blue Lycra while he’s saying, “I feel absurd.” Or looking at myself in the mirror in my silk shirt, and watching Martin grab his chin.
And the look he gave me after placing the fedora on my head. It was magical. I can’t escape it.
I feel whole and hollow all at the same time.
Which I guess I’m trying to express to my secret person, but it’s all wrong.
My secret person has put together this adventure for me, and I feel like I’ve made it all about Martin.
I don’t know what to do with this realization about myself.
I’ve never had a friendship like this before and I’ve never thought about friends in this way. I don’t know what to do with myself.
And then, to make matters worse, all I can think of is that I need to talk to Martin. Like I need to sit down and hear his perspective on things. But that’s a sure-fire way of destroying a friendship: a we-need-to-talk, over-analyze-our-relationship moment. What am I thinking?
So I stop thinking.
And decide to write again. It’s the only thing I can do to make my mind stop spinning.
I grab the journal and steadfastly compose this time, every word perfectly chosen and assembled…
and filtered. My secret person deserves the best response, so what I write is edited, perfect prose about the clothes I tried on, the joy it made me feel, and my heartfelt gratitude for the idea.
I also want to know about my secret person: What was their clothing adventure like?
Favorite outfit? Craziest find? Biggest realization about themself?
It’s perfect, my journal entry. It’s kind, heartfelt, grateful, and… empty. Empty without Martin. I feel it deeply, but I’m resolved to know that my secret person won’t. It’s the right thing to do. For my secret person. The person who’s gone out of their way to create this great adventure for me.
Not for Martin. And certainly not for Martin and me together. Like there is any “together” quality about Martin and me. What am I thinking?
So I suppress any feeling I have about being false or misleading and replace it with my ethical duty to honor my secret person. It’s an unselfish move, I keep repeating to myself.
I close the notebook, seal it back into its envelope ready for the next dead-drop. This time at the little help-yourself-library on 5th Street near the community center.
I breathe a deep, cleansing breath and go fetch my paper-wad from the floor, chucking it into the kitchen bin with a perfect shot.