Bridges by: Bao Han Tran, Acrylic Paint, Ink pen, 2019
And
The alarm blared and her hand sought and found with oft-repeated ease the button by which the sound ceased. Not once in those few seconds did she open her eyes, nor was the sound particularly surprising. Fitful sleep and half-forgotten dreams had long since surrendered to bitter wakefulness and the red light soaking through her eyelids.
A soft sigh escaped barely parted lips, and eyes that were so determinedly shut peeled themselves open.
The same sight greeted her as did every morning, tousled sheets and a bunched and rumpled quilt, shoes kicked off the night before lying on their sides, the shifting of shadowed leaves across glass revealed by half-open curtains. The sunlight dripped past the glass and into the room, draped across every surface like cobwebs, sent dust motes dancing golden with every breath.
She lay where she was, still, watching, weary, awake. The steady rhythm of her heart and the slow creak of her lungs were her only companions.
Necessity merged with willpower, took hold of her limbs as the alarm beeped again, the strident sound striving to breed urgency and succeeding only in sounding off a moment longer before ceasing yet again. Now she was sitting upright, and standing looked all the more possible, though how she would move lead laden limbs stymied her still.
Miraculously, she managed, just by willing them to move, to swing her feet over the edge of the bed and onto the cold floor. Then she was standing, walking as though with great purpose, setting out clothes and tracking down shoes and brushing teeth and relieving herself and drinking a glass of water and and and and and.
The world was full of ands.
A soft whistle of a kettle filled the air. She poured herself a cup of tea, spooning a dollop of honey into the softly steaming liquid. It burned her mouth when she raised the mug to her lips, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She pulled a dark-spotted banana from its bunch, slipped shoes onto socked feet, and slipped keys into purse. Before she left her kitchen, she grabbed a small knife from a drawer and cut off the top of the banana, absently stripping yellow skin from pale flesh. It was gone after a few bites, a few seconds of mindless chewing and swallowing, sustenance received without pleasure, the empty shell deposited in the tall trash can by the side door.
Purse in hand, she rallied herself, steeled herself, put her hand on the doorknob. It turned easily, as always, and as always felt it should have been harder, as though a mountain was suddenly smaller than a grain of sand. She locked the door behind her, plastering a smile she didn’t feel to her face as she walked through the sun-soaked morning to her car. A tap of a button, and the door unlocked with a muffled click.
Keys turned in the ignition, the steady rumble of the engine sending vibrations through the whole of the vehicle. She closed her eyes, clenched her fist, gathered herself, opened her eyes. A quick pull put the car into reverse, and she backed out of her driveway, tapping the button to turn on the radio.
The soft sounds distracted her from her thoughts as she drove through the city, paying careful attention as though to make up for how disconnected she felt. She should be happy. She knew she should be happy. There was no reason not to be, with a nice house, a job she enjoyed doing, more than enough money to live comfortably, and a small padded box inside her purse, and yet, she wasn’t.
All she could think of was the ands.
She pulled into the parking lot, into an open spot, put the car into park, waved at a coworker who was walking by. Humming along to the radio, she pulled her purse into her lap, rummaging through the contents until the box was in her hands.
It was a small thing, square and white and smooth. So small, yet containing a decision of such monumental importance. She opened the box, held it within her hands as the music swelled in chorus.
“…if she only knew…”
Her brow furrowed. A moment of stillness stretched out. Finally, she glanced at the time, shook herself out of her funk. Hurriedly, she snapped the box closed, throwing it back in her purse, gathering it and her half full mug and yanking the keys from the car, bursting from the door in a veritable whirlwind of motion and activity.
The last words of the song that played before she turned off the car and the radio hung behind her, heavy and taut, weighing her down every bit as much as the box in her purse did, and try though she might, she could not leave them behind her.
“…she’s not enough…”
The day passed by in a blur of work and effort and congratulations both murmured and called and outward excitement and hidden pain. She wondered vaguely, in those few moments she was alone, away from the wide windows and sunlit spaces in the luminescent lighting of the bathroom, if they knew how brittle and fragile the pasted smiles and repeated thanks truly were, how small and sad and thin as wet tissue paper they were.
She doubted it.
So she accepted the thanks and threw herself into work, hoping doing something she loved, something she enjoyed, would snap her out of the funk she found herself in, but to no avail. It seemed that knowing she was sinking did nothing to stop her from sinking, but she had no idea where even to begin, so she persisted.
It was a light work day, unfortunately. She wished it was heavy, that there was so much to do and get done by the end of the day that she had no time to think of what was coming later that day, after the sun surrendered to the moon and all the cards were punched, but the work was light. It was far too light to free her from the muck and mire of thoughts flying in sharp contrast to the glorious spring day just outside the windows, to the constant delight of friends and coworkers. It was too light, and there was too little to do.
Only once did someone come and ask if she was okay. She smiled, nodded, and said she was, and sent her on her way, though what she wanted to do was shake her head and let the tears lingering in her mind rise to her eyes and fall across her cheeks and admit she was anything but okay. She smiled and nodded and worked and laughed like she was just as happy for herself as everyone else was instead of sitting and staring in shocked silence and admitting that nothing was as she thought or hoped or wished it would be.
But she did none of those things, because that moment was an or, not an and, and it was one or the other. Which, in the end, meant she could only choose one.
She was the last to leave the office, only shutting down her computer and picking up her things and cleaning up her workspace and locking up behind her when the sun started to kiss the horizon goodbye, painting the air and the clouds with gold and red and purple, a sight so completely ordinary and unique it coaxed a genuine smile to her lips, the first of its kind to adorn them all day.
It lasted only a moment, the softness of the sunset sending her shadow stretching far before her as she got in her car and sat there for a moment, thinking, dreaming, looking out the windshield without seeing anything. She turned on the car, turned up the radio.
“…nothing can change…”
She sighed, put the car into reverse, flicked on the headlights, drove home. It took her only fifteen minutes to change from the casual comfortable, professional clothes she wore into a dusky red dress and heels that would inevitably be less comfortable and makeup that matched the whole ensemble, twisting up her hair into a simple, elegant knot, and then she was off again.
Orange lights lined the busy streets, mingling with the reds, greens, and yellows of traffic lights, the whites and distracting blues of headlights, the neon of storefronts and the warmth of restaurants, the whole of the world changing in the night, fighting with the darkness for dominance, for the right to exist. It only took moments for her to find where she was going, moments more to find and navigate into an empty space, headlights spearing into the shadows, parting them before her like the sea before the escaping Israelites.
Her breath caught in her chest. The night was upon her, the very moment, and as the immediacy struck her, so too did the realization she could hardly breathe. In that moment, the whole of the world seemed underwater, the air pressing thick and heavy against her skin, her heart steadfastly, steadily enduring the weight of the world that fell against her shoulders.
“…her broken heart…”
Somehow, she found herself outside, car doors locked, keys in hand, knuckles white. She walked, quickly, surely, inevitably, heels clicking against pavement until the front of the restaurant was in sight, and so was he.
She stopped in her tracks. The world rushed in, colors and sounds and smells returning as old friends, comforting, reassuring, anchoring. An errant curl brushed against the side of her face, pushed by a gentle breeze. He saw her, smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes, and with that smile, she saw everything with crystal clarity.
With him, it was always about the ands, never about the ors or what ifs. It was about getting the perfect job and getting the perfect house and marrying the perfect girl and having the perfect kids and the perfect car and the perfect dog and the perfect life. With him, she was just an and, and no matter how he treated her or how special he made her feel, there was always the understanding that everything was just because that was how it was meant to be, never because he wanted her, needed her, loved her.
She would always be another thing crossed off the list, and once she realized that, realized what he wanted, she realized that she wanted something more, something not tied to and nor to or but to only. And in that moment of perfect clarity, she found it in herself to want more than a life that would eventually, inevitably make her miserable, a life lived to check things off a list. She wanted more, and he would never be able to give it, never be able to pursue her as she followed what she wanted.
So she walked up to him, reached into her purse, pulled out the white velvet box, and held it out for him to take back. Startled surprise arched over his face, followed by the slow blossom of anger. He tried to say something, but she just shook her head, said she was sorry, and finally took his hand, giving him back the box and the ring it contained before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving him and his and behind.
Someone, not him, called out for her to stop, to think about what she was doing, but she had done nothing but think about it, and her mind was made up. The only thing left to do was walk away, so walk away she did, heedless of what anyone else thought, because the decision she made was for herself, not to satisfy anyone else and their desires and their expectations, and in that choice, she was satisfied.
For the first time in a long time, she felt free, the burden fallen from her shoulders as she walked away and he stayed where he was, rooted in place, calling for her to stop, for her to come back, but he could no sooner have returned her to his side than stopped the tide. No longer suffocating under his weight, she smiled, a deep, shuddering, cleansing breath flying from her lips.
She stepped into her car, sank into the leather seat, reveled in the familiar hum of the engine, and let the night in through the windows, thinking. Perhaps not happy, not yet, but for that moment, for that night, content.
“…she draws the lines…”