I fucking hate potpourri
There was a tap on my shoulder.
“Hi.”
A few things ran through my mind that very instant I saw her.
- I really should give my hair a trim.
- I really wish I worked out more.
- I really hope I don’t have coffee breath.
- I really should have shaved this morning.
- I really wish I worked out more.
A few weeks ago as I was getting rid of stuff from my old room, I found this old wooden puzzle box (which was just like any other wooden box but just takes twice the time to open). It was a Valentine’s day gift from this girl who (well, I guess apparently) liked me.
Junior College, 17 years old, in the middle of a corridor at school.
She handed me the box and went off on her way. It was a hot day. I was probably shiny with sweat. She was probably shiny because she was beautiful. She had a paper bag full of flowers from various guys and she was wearing her RGS uniform - a strange sight in a sea of freshmen wearing identifiably neighbourhood uniforms.
I cannot for the life of me remember her name. She was the prettiest girl in school and I cannot remember her name.
When she gave me the thing, I probably said something like, “Uh thanks…” the same way I said, “Uh…hi” when she tapped me on my shoulder just now.
I don’t remember what was in the box she gave me 9 years ago. Even when I was inspecting it recently, I’ve already emptied out the contents of whatever was inside (I’m assuming) years ago. All I remember was that there was potpourri.
What is it with teenage girls and potpourri? My ex-girlfriend (different from the girl who just tapped me on the shoulder) used a lot of potpourri to garnish the presents she gave me as well. Never mind that she withheld sex and cheated on me with another girl and showed more affection to her dogs than she ever gave me. Somehow potpourri was supposed to soften the deep psychological blows of your first girlfriend turning lesbian on you- and make it all smell nice.
I fucking hate potpourri.
But other than the memory of (that fucking) potpourri, I have no idea what else was in that wooden box. For all you know, she might have given me a box full of just potpourri. That makes a lot more sense. But of course, that was probably not the case.
“What are you doing here?”
I took the opportunity to quickly assess her face. Yes, she is still beautiful. No, she hasn’t put on weight. Yes, her skin is still perfect. Yes, her teeth are still straight and white and pearly and perfect. She dresses expensive and she dresses well.
She asked me, “Do you work around here?”
And I thought, “Woman, I’m wearing my pajamas at 1 in the afternoon -do I look like I work around here?” But instead, I said,
“I live around here.”
Great now she thinks I’m unemployed.
“What are you doing around here?”
“Oh I work around here, I’m a trader at _________”
“Sorry where again?”
“I’m a trader at _______”
There is a rhythm to these kinds of exchanges so I just gave up and went with it.
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
“So…okay, what the hell-what was in that box that you gave me 9 years ago on a hot March afternoon in the middle of that corridor in school on Valentine’s day? I found it the other day and looking at it all empty and stuff gave me this weird feeling like I’ve lost something delicate and symbolic of my fast diminishing youth. I hope it wasn’t just potpourri because frankly, I rather my youth be represented by something more symbolic, like a withering flower, or some kind of kitschy stuffed animal or some kind of porcelain trinket that is ironically cliché. “
-was what I should have said. But instead, I said,
“So…you’re just here to grab a coffee before heading back to the office?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah the coffee here is pretty famous.”
“Yeah!”
“Cool.”
“Yup.”
“So..”
“It was nice seeing you again.”
“Yeah you too.”
“Bye!”
“Bye bye.”
I went out for lunch with her a few years ago. She dropped me a Facebook message out of the blue and asked me out. She picked the place. I just ate. I figured since she was making all that money being a model at Mannequin, I might as well let her pay. Also, I was dead broke at that time.
She must have thought that it was really strange that I talked about my girlfriend throughout the entire meal. Because, on hindsight, I think she thought it was a date. I had no intentions of progressing that meal into anything but two people in an empty restaurant making painfully awkward conversation. Yes, it was empty during a weekday in one of the busiest places in town. No, she did not book it out - because that would just be ridiculous.
I can’t remember what kind of inane shit I was saying, but I remember her saying something to me like, “You’re very artistic.” Which sounded more like, “You’re very Autistic.” I could tell she was hell annoyed at me. Probably cause of the girlfriend thing. So I played up the eccentric artist card as much as I could. Also because for some reason, I was nervous. She was probably confused about my intentions. Quite frankly, so was I.
So many times, I would pass a billboard or a magazine page where I would see her face being all first-class-modeling-agency-like, and I would tell who ever was with me, “That girl gave me a wooden puzzle box on Valentines day.” And I can always see written on their faces, “Who gives a shit?” Well. For some strange reason, I still do.
When she walked away from me today she didn’t leave the café immediately. She sat near the entrance thumbing through a magazine waiting for her take away. I shouldn’t know this because my back was facing the entrance. I know this because obviously, I made the effort to turn around and check.
The light coming in from the glass door made the whole scene look like a classic Vemeer. Soft light, dark shadows, beautiful woman being watched by a pair of male eyes with undeterminable intentions. Perfect cliché. And you know what’s the cherry on top? In the glimmer of that 1 o’clock sun, I saw the wedding ring wrapped around her finger and I thought,
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAlolol.”
You know what, she was right. I am Austistic.
And I should really work out more.