Shut Your Eyes

“Quoi tu penses?” (What’re you thinking?)

“Permettez-moi de peindre le condo? Au moins la chambre d'hôtes?” (Let me paint the condo? At least the guest room?) Max pursed his lips as he thought.

“Est-ce que cela signifie vous revenez à Pittsburgh?” (Does this mean you’re moving back to Pittsburgh?) I sighed and looked down at the tile floor below my dangling feet.

“Je ne sais pas.” (I don’t know.)

Max rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “Ce n'est pas une décision difficile, Maggie. Pourquoi tu fais qu'il si vachement dur?” (This isn’t a difficult decision, Maggie. Why are you making it so fucking hard?)

I shot my head up at him. Slowly, I unwrapped the scarf from my neck, exposing the angry purple bruise underneath. Pulling the collar of my sweater down slightly, I pointed to a circular scar on my neck. The perfect match for a cigar. It was silvery white now, and smooth, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“C'est ce qui s'est passé quand j'ai parlé de nouveau à lui dernier Avril.” (This is what happened when I talked back to him last April.) Max dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to look at me. I pushed my bangs back, showing him a thin white line that ran along my hairline from my ear to the middle of my eyebrow. “C'est ce qui s'est passé lorsque j'ai essayé d'appeler les flics sur lui l'année dernière. Quinze points de suture.” (This is what happened when I tried to call the cops on him last year. Fifteen stitches.) I pointed to the bruise I wore on my throat. Tears began to burn behind my eyes. “Il m'a donné ce juste parce qu'il avait trop bu et était dans un de ses humeurs.” (He gave me this because he’d had too much to drink and was in one of his moods.)

You could have heard a pin drop. Max said nothing, still unable to look me in the eye.

“Je suppose que c'est pourquoi je je lis la présente "si vachement dur", Maxime. Parce que même si j'ai peur de ce qu'il va faire pour moi si je reviens, je suis encore plus terrifié de ce qu'il va faire pour moi si je n'aime pas.” (I guess that's why I am making this "so fucking hard", Maxime. Because even though I'm scared of what he'll do to me if I come back, I'm even more terrified of what he'll do to me if I don't.)

Sliding off the counter, I walked into my room, leaving Max standing alone in the kitchen.

…………………………………………………………………………………

That night I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep. Outside my window the moon was big and bright. The clock beside my bed read 2:18 in bright green lights. My door creaked open quietly, but I didn’t look over; I knew who it was. Max laid down on the bed beside me, staring up at the ceiling with sad blue eyes.

“Je suis si désolé, Maggie.” (I’m so sorry, Maggie.) It was whispered out into the silence of my bedroom, left hanging like a rope for me to grab onto.

I turned my head to the left and watched as Max stared at the circulating fan above him. A real apology from Max was never to be taken lightly. Sure, he apologized a lot for things like accidently cursing in front of our mother or his friends barging in on lunch, but it was more a formality than anything else. Real apologies were few and far between, and this one was no different. I turned my attention back to the moon outside my window for a moment before looking up at the ceiling as well.

“Je sais que vous êtes, Max.” (I know you are, Max) The words flowed out with an exhaled breath, soft and quiet in the silent room.

I ran a tongue over the healing wound on my lip. Suddenly I felt like a kid again, who had crawled into my big brother’s bed to escape from the monsters in my closet. Only this time, Max had crawled into my bed and the monster wasn’t in my closet, it was in Philadelphia.

I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but the last words I heard before zoning out made me smile to myself. They came out of nowhere, an olive branch extended as a peace offering.

“Vous pouvez peindre le condo.” (You can paint the condo.)

………………………………………………………………………………….

When I woke up the next morning, I was alone.

The clock told me it was 9:27. Max had a day off, so he wouldn’t be up yet. I got up slowly; one hand ran through my messy curls while the other kneaded into my side, trying to soothe the sore muscles.

I went through my morning routine fairly quickly, taking a short shower and leaving my hair to air dry before brushing my teeth and re-taping my ribs with the roll of athletic tape that Max had given to me. I pulled an old Penguins t-shirt on, not bothering with makeup since I didn’t plan on going anywhere, and wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Pulling ingredients out of the fridge and pantry, I decided to make my mother’s famous blueberry pancakes. Bowls, whisks, and measuring cups were scattered around the counter and it didn’t take long for me to whip the ingredients into a batter. I knew Max had a griddle because I’d used it for breakfast at his last apartment. Eventually I found it buried in a cabinet under the oven, so I pulled it out and began heating it up on the stovetop.

Once I had a few pancakes sizzling away on the griddle, I heard Max’s footsteps padding down the hardwood stairs. A smile broke across my face. He couldn’t stay away from food.

I watched him stumble into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and hair sticking up in every direction.

“Etes-vous faire des crêpes?” (Are you making pancakes?) He asked in a daze. I chuckled and nodded to the bar seating.

“Avoir un siège, Max. Ils vont être fait en une seconde.” (Have a seat, Max. They’ll be done in a second.)

He pulled himself onto a barstool and began rubbing sleep from his eyes like a four year old. The only sound to be heard was the pancakes sizzling quietly on the griddle. Making sure they were done on both sides, I fixed Max a plate and handed it to him.

“Vous aurez pour obtenir le beurre et le sirop hors du réfrigérateur.” (You’ll have to get the butter and syrup out of the fridge.) I said softly, not even looking up as I concentrated on pouring more batter into evenly spaced circles on the griddle.

Max ate while he watched me make more pancakes. I kept going until the large bowl of batter was empty, and the plate next to the griddle was stacked with golden-brown circles. Pulling another plate out of the cabinet, I grabbed a couple of pancakes and went to sit beside Max, who was busy piling more pancakes onto his plate.

“Alors Maggie, quels sont vos grands projets pour aujourd'hui?” (So Maggie, what are your big plans for today?) Max asked me with a mouth full of food.

I raised an eyebrow and crinkled my nose in disgust at his table manners. They obviously hadn’t improved much since the last time I’d seen him.

Shrugging, I answered him. “Je ne sais pas. Peut-être que je vais aller au centre ville et prendre quelques photos.” (I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go downtown and take some pictures.)

Max nodded and speared a piece of pancake on his fork, pointing it at me. “Vous devriez venir avec moi à la maison de Marc. Je suis l'aider à rassembler sa nouvelle table de ping-pong. Véronique sera là.” (You should come with me to Marc’s house. I’m helping him put together his new ping pong table. Veronique will be there.)

I smiled and poked at my food. “Peut-être que je le ferai.” (Maybe I will.)

We ate in silence, just enjoying the morning and each other’s company. When we were both finished, Max took our plates and put them into the sink. “Aller se préparer, je vais nettoyer la cuisine vers le haut.” (Go get ready, I’ll clean the kitchen up.) I smiled and got up, pressing a quick kiss to Max’s cheek as I exited the kitchen.

“Ne pas oublier de mettre du savon dans le lave-vaisselle.” (Don’t forget to put soap in the dishwasher.) I teased as I wandered into my room. I heard Max’s throaty chuckle in the kitchen.

“Oh, elle est un comédien.” (Oh, she’s a comedian.)

I smiled and rolled my eyes before digging through the dresser for something to wear.