See Me
ONE
“Have you ever been in love?”
This man looks at me, and it feels like the first time anyone really has. He looks at me, and he sees my paint-stained trainers and my jeans that have a black ink-stain on the thigh, but they were really expensive and I like them too damn much to throw them away. He sees the way my fingernails have been bitten right down, how they’re nothing more than sensitive, bleeding little nubs that I press into just to feel something. He sees my twice-pierced ears, and the hair that falls around them, the hair that’s been dyed so many times that I can’t even remember what colour it’s supposed to be. His eyes linger on the scar on my cheek, from the cut I received after a fight with a stray cat who had wandered in through my open window. The cut that never healed.
He’s taking me in. All of me. But it feels like so much more; like he’s seeing me, brushing my teeth in the morning. Painting my ceiling and listening to Simon and Garfunkel. Drinking alone, reading alone, crying alone. Smoking a cigarette, listening to my neighbours fighting. Calling my mother just to hear her voice because even when I’m standing beside her she’s still too far away and I miss her so much. Forgetfully abandoning and ultimately killing every plant I own. Walking around my house, just looking at everything I’ve ever bought, and realising it doesn’t mean a thing. He’s seeing all the times when I’m so vulnerable, the things that nobody has ever seen.
“No. I haven’t.”
I think about this man, this stranger who sees everything. What is his life like? Is he close with his father? Does he travel a lot, travel to places so far away, while I can barely even get out of bed? I picture him watching terrible reality TV and getting so invested in the plot that he shouts at his television between mouthfuls of Chinese take-out. I wonder about the things he does when he’s alone. Cooking naked because he’s always heard it’s liberating, and then realising it’s not such a good idea to be nude in a room with so many scalding objects. Spending an entire hour in the shower, running through his repertoire of shower songs. Having a list of things he wants to do in his life. What happened to my list? I imagine him swearing that one day, when he has time, he’ll accomplish everything on that list. Is he happy? Has he ever wanted to die?
“Well let me tell you, it’s somehow equally the best and worst thing that could ever happen to you. Sometimes it happens so fast, you barely even notice. You’re living your life, going to work, making dinner, and you find your thoughts drifting to that person, wondering what they’re doing and if they’re thinking about you. You get so crazy, so stuck inside your own head when all you want to do is be in theirs. You get jealous just watching them buy a coffee, because you wish you were the one making that coffee for them, and handing it to them and brushing their fingers as you give them their change. You memorise every flaw, until they stop being flaws, and start being reasons you love them. You never forget the way they smell, or how they look when they’re embarrassed, or how warm their hands are when they’re clasped in yours. It’s a total mess. But it’s a beautiful mess. And I really think it’s something everyone should get the chance to experience in life. Including you.”
I listen to him talking about this beautiful mess that is love, and I realise I want that. More than I want to read the classics. More than I want to learn to play piano. More than I want to visit Egypt. More than I want this.
“Look, we don’t know each other. Maybe you won’t like me. You might hate that I smoke, or that I never pick up the bill. But maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe we were supposed to be here, right here, right now, together. So come on; have a drink with me. Please.”
He stands there, hand outstretched, never once taking his eyes off me. And then, as the crowd gathered beneath us begins to cheer, I step off the ledge.
This man looks at me, and it feels like the first time anyone really has. He looks at me, and he sees my paint-stained trainers and my jeans that have a black ink-stain on the thigh, but they were really expensive and I like them too damn much to throw them away. He sees the way my fingernails have been bitten right down, how they’re nothing more than sensitive, bleeding little nubs that I press into just to feel something. He sees my twice-pierced ears, and the hair that falls around them, the hair that’s been dyed so many times that I can’t even remember what colour it’s supposed to be. His eyes linger on the scar on my cheek, from the cut I received after a fight with a stray cat who had wandered in through my open window. The cut that never healed.
He’s taking me in. All of me. But it feels like so much more; like he’s seeing me, brushing my teeth in the morning. Painting my ceiling and listening to Simon and Garfunkel. Drinking alone, reading alone, crying alone. Smoking a cigarette, listening to my neighbours fighting. Calling my mother just to hear her voice because even when I’m standing beside her she’s still too far away and I miss her so much. Forgetfully abandoning and ultimately killing every plant I own. Walking around my house, just looking at everything I’ve ever bought, and realising it doesn’t mean a thing. He’s seeing all the times when I’m so vulnerable, the things that nobody has ever seen.
“No. I haven’t.”
I think about this man, this stranger who sees everything. What is his life like? Is he close with his father? Does he travel a lot, travel to places so far away, while I can barely even get out of bed? I picture him watching terrible reality TV and getting so invested in the plot that he shouts at his television between mouthfuls of Chinese take-out. I wonder about the things he does when he’s alone. Cooking naked because he’s always heard it’s liberating, and then realising it’s not such a good idea to be nude in a room with so many scalding objects. Spending an entire hour in the shower, running through his repertoire of shower songs. Having a list of things he wants to do in his life. What happened to my list? I imagine him swearing that one day, when he has time, he’ll accomplish everything on that list. Is he happy? Has he ever wanted to die?
“Well let me tell you, it’s somehow equally the best and worst thing that could ever happen to you. Sometimes it happens so fast, you barely even notice. You’re living your life, going to work, making dinner, and you find your thoughts drifting to that person, wondering what they’re doing and if they’re thinking about you. You get so crazy, so stuck inside your own head when all you want to do is be in theirs. You get jealous just watching them buy a coffee, because you wish you were the one making that coffee for them, and handing it to them and brushing their fingers as you give them their change. You memorise every flaw, until they stop being flaws, and start being reasons you love them. You never forget the way they smell, or how they look when they’re embarrassed, or how warm their hands are when they’re clasped in yours. It’s a total mess. But it’s a beautiful mess. And I really think it’s something everyone should get the chance to experience in life. Including you.”
I listen to him talking about this beautiful mess that is love, and I realise I want that. More than I want to read the classics. More than I want to learn to play piano. More than I want to visit Egypt. More than I want this.
“Look, we don’t know each other. Maybe you won’t like me. You might hate that I smoke, or that I never pick up the bill. But maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe we were supposed to be here, right here, right now, together. So come on; have a drink with me. Please.”
He stands there, hand outstretched, never once taking his eyes off me. And then, as the crowd gathered beneath us begins to cheer, I step off the ledge.