Manatee
How is it that something you’ve been wanting, envisioning, thinking of and anticipating for such a long time—this thing you just know in your heart will be an amazing moment, a precious memory to be stored forever and carried wherever you go—how can it be turned into such agony?
If I retake all my steps to reach this moment, I still can’t pinpoint; when did it all go to shit? When did this day, this crack in my existence, turn into this ugly pitiful thing? James and I have been planning this trip for months. We saved enough to be comfortable, we worked a reasonable daily budget, we organized activities, we booked stays that didn’t rip holes into our pockets. We planned to be here, yet how can it be that it became so corrupted?
This weight of being, of existing together, this burdensome connection that instead of finding wonder at what surrounds us—places we’ve chosen to be surrounded by—becomes so tainted we end up blind? Fear grows from behind our eyes clouding our sights. His with resentment, anger, jealousy. Mine with despair, uncertainty, shame.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say, embarrassed by the tears running down my face in such a public place. I look around, at least no one’s at our hearing range, we’re standing at the edge of the park. “I don’t even know who this guy was, James.” I say, pleadingly. I try to pull an image from my memories of this moment he speaks of. I think again of us sitting in the bus, and I can’t remember anyone’s faces, because all I can remember is being lost in a haze of my own memories and stories, as if watching a movie in my head.
“Don’t play dumb, you were staring at this guy the whole time, and he was smiling at you and you just wouldn’t look away—you think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see what I see? What the fuck is wrong with you?” My hands are clammy and my heart racing, he’s furious, and whatever it is that he saw, it’s not what happened.
“James, please, you know I sometimes daydream, right? Like I’m staring in a specific direction, but I’m not really looking at anything, I’m just lost in my head—” I beg, explain, please, you have to believe me, I’m telling the truth. “I swear to you, James, I don’t even know what this guy looks like,” but he’s rolling his eyes, scoffing. Disdain paints his face.
“You’re either lying, or you’re so disconnected from existing that I think we should be concerned—” I’m about to reply, but he cuts me off. “But it’s the former, and you know how I know that? Because you smiled back at him.” His voice drips with smugness. I’m taken aback.
“What?” I hiss incredulous.
“Stop playing dumb, I saw it with my own eyes.” And there it is, the finality, the evidence, the sentence. It doesn’t matter what I remember, because I’m probably just wrong. Because I have mental issues, I struggle remembering and noticing things, and maybe I did stare at this guy, and maybe I wasn’t really there, but maybe he did smile at me and maybe I did smile back.
It doesn’t matter what I think happened. And it doesn’t matter what I have to say. It doesn’t matter if I can explain, he saw it, and for him to get this worked up, it must be true. Even if I didn’t mean to, it happened.
I’m wrong and he’s right. And I can’t even breathe through my nose anymore. My sleeves are covered with snot and tears, my face feels too hot.
“I don’t know if you just pretend you can’t see, but you have this thing that you want others to look at you and think you’re beautiful, like—to be desired, validated and you enjoy when guys look at you.” The repulsion in his voice is enough for shame to wash over me, to strand me bare, vulnerable. I can’t breathe.
I can hear the distant sound of the ocean even though it’s right next to me. And I can feel the phantom sensation of the sun against my skin, but my bones feel as if they’ve been frozen. Something’s not right with me, I know it.
“I’m sorry.” And he says something again, and I say, “I’m sorry, James. You’re right, I really have to be more aware, I didn’t mean anything by it, I must be seeking attention without noticing.” And he keeps talking, but I can’t really hear. “I’m really sorry.”
And we continue like this until he’s been placated, and I’m left with only a carcass of myself; hollow, scentless. He’s remembering about the bar issue when the same thing happened, how did I forget about that? I wonder. And I nod. There was also that party we went to with his friends. A gentle splashing sound cuts through my daze, he continues to speak.
And as I look down I see it, the sweetest thing in the world, the reason I’ve been excitedly gushing about coming to this park our entire trip. This place where my grandmother used to bring me. Where we’d squat at the edge of the sidewalk, waving lettuce leaves above the sea, waiting, hearts filled with wonder, for the manatees to show up, so we could feed them, pet them.
“You can stay if you want, I’m leaving now.” He says coldly. And I can feel the glare blazing at the side of my face. I want to scoff, because there’s no way in hell that me staying here ends up well for me. He knows that, and he knows I know that too. It’s a ridiculous charade. This is the fucking worst. I think to myself, and the sweet thing in the water floats in a circle, eyes curiously staring back at me.
The salt in the air grows heavy, a stream runs down my cheeks.
I think about my grandmother, and I forget to breathe again. I miss her so much, so much it takes everything to remain standing.
“I’m coming with.”
30 Days of Writing Challenge – Day 11, Prompt: Manatee
Manatee was not intended to be an exceptionally well written piece. It’s unpretentious, intimate, close. I wanted it to be felt in the skin. And in case you’re worried, there’s no need to be. I’ve had many years to work through my traumas heh. I’m all good now. Thanks for reading!
