broken memories. (a personal essay by Roxxy Haze)

I was leaving a show and I called him. He never answers, but I would still call. It’s part misguided optimism, part masochism. Sometimes, I just want to feel something, anything, even if it’s pain.

He answered. He was driving around and was close to another comedy club I frequent. Because, I was a comedian I could get free tickets to all the shows. I told him to meet me there.

He got out the car and walked up to me, smiling. He has one of those smiles that make you smile, even when you don’t want to. You forget about everything else, nothing else matters in that moment. He is the personification of pure, unaltered joy. It’s intoxicating.

The comedy show was over as soon as we got there.

“Now, what are we going to do?”

He plucked a flower from the decoration in front of the building and handed it to me. It was small and purple. The romantic in me loved the gesture and the anarchist in me loved the destruction of public property.

Then, he took one for himself. He looked at me, smiling. Then he ate it, whole.

“Let’s make memories.”

We walked over to the bar. It had an arcade inside. The lights danced above my head.

We climbed inside the Jurassic Park game, one of my favorite games. Bittersweet nostalgia.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He smiled. Then it faded.

“But…I’m married now.”

“…I know.”

We kissed, a selfish kiss. He was my escape and I was his. My nirvana, a semblance of happiness.

No, not a semblance. This WAS happiness. The feeling is just so foreign, sometime I don’t know if that is what it is. It is fleeting, it is at times, a fallacy to me. But, I can not lie. That is something I don’t do. I was happy in this moment. Even if just for a moment.

Then.

Silence.

“I left my pills in the car.”

“What? What pills?”

“My bipolar medicine. I left them in the car with my wallet. I can’t drink and I don’t have my medicine. I don’t like how this feels. We need to go.”

It was raining. It was heavy and hard. Each drop plundering down from the sky. I looked up. It was a sea of dark abyss. No stars, no moon.

We ran.

Running from the rain, running from the weight of the world, running from actuality. Running. That’s what we did. That’s what we always did. Holding hands, we ran.

The rain started to pour down, hard and violent. Puddles splashing us in the face with every step we took.

Breathing heavily, we took shelter in the parking garage, our clothes soaked. We looked at each other.

“Let’s kiss in the rain like white people.”

“What?”

“In all rom coms, the white couple always kiss in the rain.”

I never understood why they did that. Just go in the fucking house.

He grabbed me and cradled me in his arms. For a moment, I was weightless. He carried me into the rain as confused couples sprinted past us.

His lips finding mine, even in the darkness.

We walked the rest of the way to our cars in silence.

Shaking, he lit a cigarette.

“I know you hate the smell.”

He got in his car. Inhale.

I got in too. He looked at me. Exhale.

He threw it out his window, then put his head down.

Tears were falling down his face.

“I’m a fucking mess. Sometimes, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing. It’s like I’m supposed to be something, and I just can’t. Why can’t I just be in this moment with you? Why can’t I just be happy? Why the fuck can I never just…be. It’s like I’m being punished.”

Silence.

We listened to the rain falling against his window. Watching the sky. Broken still, but at least we have the memories.