(06) → the best goodbyes are yours
Eames, it seems, is as good at goodbyes as he is everything else. Eames, it seems, is gone this time. Not for good, but he is gone.
Arthur wakes up to a rising sun and a setting pair of eyes. Eames is a foot and a half from his face and he is leaning heavily against his own hand, carrying the weight of something Arthur can’t see.
“I’m leaving,” he says. “I’m leaving the country and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“You’re leaving,” Arthur says. His voice makes him sound more tired than he is. Or maybe he really is that tired and he just doesn’t know it. Eames, it seems, knows him best.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll see you when you wake up.”
Eames, it seems, is a master at goodbyes, because he’s gone when Arthur wakes up again and the room is weighted down with a quiet mystery.
*
He eats cereal.
He gets out of bed as casually as he does every morning. Eames is a chameleon, a safari of words, and yes, he leaves, but he always returns.
So he sits and eats and feels like a boy in an oversized shirt that isn’t his with a spoon in his hand that keeps an erratic beat against the bowl. And there’s a heartbeat in this, he thinks. Somewhere, there has to be a heartbeat in what they do, this back and forth, because nothing is alive without a heartbeat and Eames, he thinks, we are very much alive.
He washes his bowl and spoon, tucks the cereal away in a cabinet, lifts his head high, a little higher, thinks Eames and carries on.
*
The thing is, they never knew. They never knew anything, really. Because Arthur is nineteen when he falls in love with the world of Mallorie and twenty-three when he buries her. And it doesn’t make sense for a person to not know, to not understand the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes and the nonsense Eames drags in like a stray cat. He mumbles in his sleep at least once a week, leaves toothpaste in the sink, turns unnecessary lights on, and they never knew. They never knew anything at all and that’s what makes this special, Arthur thinks. This is why ignorance is bliss, maybe, because this kind of discovery is Mal all over again, a staccato of wonder and a pocket of identities.
But Mal, Mal, is discovered once and forgotten. She is a blitzkrieg. She is a heartbreaker and a queen and a pair of snake eyes. She is a streak of luck and nothing more. And this is why she jumped, because no one ever said goodbye to her, and when they did, they didn’t do it right.
*
Eames comes back three weeks later. There’s nothing different about him at all, and Eames says “I missed you” and Arthur says “hello” and he presses their mouths together and breathes.
“Hello,” Arthur says, at three in the morning when they’re dizzy and happy and the sheets are hot and heavy with sleep.
“Hello Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur smiles incredibly wide when he says this, because he wants to do it right, and they’re doing it right and it’s wonderful. It’s always wonderful like this, the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes.
Eames mumbles in his sleep, and Arthur lies awake and doesn’t try to understand.
*
“Arthur.”
Mal had taken his hands, once. She had held them in her own and squeezed them, placed one at her hip and kept the other against her palm.
“Dom is going to dance with me afterwards, you know.”
They’re in her kitchen. She’s barefoot. Toenails, fingernails blood red and shiny. She steps delicately across the tile. Her feet touch, arch; she steps again. Arthur keeps the tempo, smiles. They are radiant, he knows. They would be devastating if they wanted to be.
“Dom is a fool when he dances. He thinks too much,” she whispers. And Arthur knows this, he does.
“Dom has two left feet. But you will look lovely, I promise,” Mal giggles and her feet touch, arch; she steps again.
Arthur keeps the tempo.
*
Eames flies from New York to Arizona to California and back. He does this simply because he wants to, because he likes to get away. Arthur doesn’t mind. He never minds. The sheets are cold when he sleeps that night, and it’s okay, for the most part. He doesn’t need to understand what Eames mumbles in his sleep or why the light stays on in an empty house or where his plane is landing.
Eames knows how to say goodbye and Arthur knows how to say hello, and this is why they’re doing it right.
*
He loved Mal. If he thinks about it, he really loved her. But Mal didn’t understand the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes. And they didn’t do it right. Nobody could ever do it right with Mal, and this is why they call a tragedy a tragedy and not a mistake.
*
When Eames comes back, Arthur says “hello” and Eames kisses him, hard. They sleep on the sofa, pressed together uncomfortably, skin too hot. And Arthur listens for a heartbeat and hears nothing at all. And the heat of a man with one plane ticket to Prague is heavy at his back. And he sleeps, hearing nothing, and thinks it’s okay for now, since they’re doing it right.
Eames mumbles something. Arthur doesn’t know what he says but he smiles into the crook of Eames’s arm and thinks it’s better not to know.
*
Prague is a suffocating stretch of time. Arthur turns twenty-seven. Eames is in Prague and Arthur is twenty-seven and Mal is dead four years, and Eames, he thinks, we are very much alive. This is it, perhaps. This is the steady inhale of frost, the burn of the lungs, the falling action of it all. But they are doing it right, and there’s a languid drum of a heartbeat, distant and tinny, so Arthur waits.
*
“Hello,” Arthur says.
*
Eames wakes up in the middle of the night to an alarm on his cell phone. Arthur wakes from it, too. He turns, sits up, watches Eames get dressed and says where?
Eames tucks his shirt in, fixes his pockets, sits down on the bed and leans in. Arthur feels his lips against his forehead and tries to kiss him. Eames lets him, makes him out to be a fool, because they both know where this is going, but they’re doing it right.
“Nowhere. Go back to sleep.”
And Arthur does, and he wakes and Eames is gone, and this is a wonderful in-between, he thinks, a wonderful back and forth.
Eames, it seems, is a master at goodbyes.
*
They simply never knew.
They’re fools. It’s as simple as that. And Arthur will gladly wake a million mornings to cold sheets because Eames comes back, and Arthur always says hello, and what sense does it make if they’re always waiting and always wanting?
Mal knew. Mal understood what it was to be half of a whole. Mal understood that what she wanted was what she got, until she got what she didn’t want. And it was Dom’s fault, Arthur once thought. It was Dom’s fault for doing it to her, for forcing the in-betweens and the heartbeat.
But it was always Mal. Beautiful, tragic Mal.
Mal’s feet touched, arched; she stepped again.
And Arthur listens, really listens, and thinks the heartbeat of all of this is in the way Eames says goodbye because he doesn’t say it at all. And if Arthur says hello it’s a hello well spent, because there once was a time when he danced with Mal in her kitchen, and she never understood what he does now.
The door creaks open. Eames turns the light on, and Arthur knows it won’t go off any time soon, but it’s okay, because Eames leans down and kisses him and Arthur says hello.
fin.
Arthur wakes up to a rising sun and a setting pair of eyes. Eames is a foot and a half from his face and he is leaning heavily against his own hand, carrying the weight of something Arthur can’t see.
“I’m leaving,” he says. “I’m leaving the country and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“You’re leaving,” Arthur says. His voice makes him sound more tired than he is. Or maybe he really is that tired and he just doesn’t know it. Eames, it seems, knows him best.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll see you when you wake up.”
Eames, it seems, is a master at goodbyes, because he’s gone when Arthur wakes up again and the room is weighted down with a quiet mystery.
*
He eats cereal.
He gets out of bed as casually as he does every morning. Eames is a chameleon, a safari of words, and yes, he leaves, but he always returns.
So he sits and eats and feels like a boy in an oversized shirt that isn’t his with a spoon in his hand that keeps an erratic beat against the bowl. And there’s a heartbeat in this, he thinks. Somewhere, there has to be a heartbeat in what they do, this back and forth, because nothing is alive without a heartbeat and Eames, he thinks, we are very much alive.
He washes his bowl and spoon, tucks the cereal away in a cabinet, lifts his head high, a little higher, thinks Eames and carries on.
*
The thing is, they never knew. They never knew anything, really. Because Arthur is nineteen when he falls in love with the world of Mallorie and twenty-three when he buries her. And it doesn’t make sense for a person to not know, to not understand the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes and the nonsense Eames drags in like a stray cat. He mumbles in his sleep at least once a week, leaves toothpaste in the sink, turns unnecessary lights on, and they never knew. They never knew anything at all and that’s what makes this special, Arthur thinks. This is why ignorance is bliss, maybe, because this kind of discovery is Mal all over again, a staccato of wonder and a pocket of identities.
But Mal, Mal, is discovered once and forgotten. She is a blitzkrieg. She is a heartbreaker and a queen and a pair of snake eyes. She is a streak of luck and nothing more. And this is why she jumped, because no one ever said goodbye to her, and when they did, they didn’t do it right.
*
Eames comes back three weeks later. There’s nothing different about him at all, and Eames says “I missed you” and Arthur says “hello” and he presses their mouths together and breathes.
“Hello,” Arthur says, at three in the morning when they’re dizzy and happy and the sheets are hot and heavy with sleep.
“Hello Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur smiles incredibly wide when he says this, because he wants to do it right, and they’re doing it right and it’s wonderful. It’s always wonderful like this, the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes.
Eames mumbles in his sleep, and Arthur lies awake and doesn’t try to understand.
*
“Arthur.”
Mal had taken his hands, once. She had held them in her own and squeezed them, placed one at her hip and kept the other against her palm.
“Dom is going to dance with me afterwards, you know.”
They’re in her kitchen. She’s barefoot. Toenails, fingernails blood red and shiny. She steps delicately across the tile. Her feet touch, arch; she steps again. Arthur keeps the tempo, smiles. They are radiant, he knows. They would be devastating if they wanted to be.
“Dom is a fool when he dances. He thinks too much,” she whispers. And Arthur knows this, he does.
“Dom has two left feet. But you will look lovely, I promise,” Mal giggles and her feet touch, arch; she steps again.
Arthur keeps the tempo.
*
Eames flies from New York to Arizona to California and back. He does this simply because he wants to, because he likes to get away. Arthur doesn’t mind. He never minds. The sheets are cold when he sleeps that night, and it’s okay, for the most part. He doesn’t need to understand what Eames mumbles in his sleep or why the light stays on in an empty house or where his plane is landing.
Eames knows how to say goodbye and Arthur knows how to say hello, and this is why they’re doing it right.
*
He loved Mal. If he thinks about it, he really loved her. But Mal didn’t understand the in-betweens and the hellos and the goodbyes. And they didn’t do it right. Nobody could ever do it right with Mal, and this is why they call a tragedy a tragedy and not a mistake.
*
When Eames comes back, Arthur says “hello” and Eames kisses him, hard. They sleep on the sofa, pressed together uncomfortably, skin too hot. And Arthur listens for a heartbeat and hears nothing at all. And the heat of a man with one plane ticket to Prague is heavy at his back. And he sleeps, hearing nothing, and thinks it’s okay for now, since they’re doing it right.
Eames mumbles something. Arthur doesn’t know what he says but he smiles into the crook of Eames’s arm and thinks it’s better not to know.
*
Prague is a suffocating stretch of time. Arthur turns twenty-seven. Eames is in Prague and Arthur is twenty-seven and Mal is dead four years, and Eames, he thinks, we are very much alive. This is it, perhaps. This is the steady inhale of frost, the burn of the lungs, the falling action of it all. But they are doing it right, and there’s a languid drum of a heartbeat, distant and tinny, so Arthur waits.
*
“Hello,” Arthur says.
*
Eames wakes up in the middle of the night to an alarm on his cell phone. Arthur wakes from it, too. He turns, sits up, watches Eames get dressed and says where?
Eames tucks his shirt in, fixes his pockets, sits down on the bed and leans in. Arthur feels his lips against his forehead and tries to kiss him. Eames lets him, makes him out to be a fool, because they both know where this is going, but they’re doing it right.
“Nowhere. Go back to sleep.”
And Arthur does, and he wakes and Eames is gone, and this is a wonderful in-between, he thinks, a wonderful back and forth.
Eames, it seems, is a master at goodbyes.
*
They simply never knew.
They’re fools. It’s as simple as that. And Arthur will gladly wake a million mornings to cold sheets because Eames comes back, and Arthur always says hello, and what sense does it make if they’re always waiting and always wanting?
Mal knew. Mal understood what it was to be half of a whole. Mal understood that what she wanted was what she got, until she got what she didn’t want. And it was Dom’s fault, Arthur once thought. It was Dom’s fault for doing it to her, for forcing the in-betweens and the heartbeat.
But it was always Mal. Beautiful, tragic Mal.
Mal’s feet touched, arched; she stepped again.
And Arthur listens, really listens, and thinks the heartbeat of all of this is in the way Eames says goodbye because he doesn’t say it at all. And if Arthur says hello it’s a hello well spent, because there once was a time when he danced with Mal in her kitchen, and she never understood what he does now.
The door creaks open. Eames turns the light on, and Arthur knows it won’t go off any time soon, but it’s okay, because Eames leans down and kisses him and Arthur says hello.
fin.