Memorial(62)
* * *
When I made it back in the morning, he’d unlock the door. We’d start again the next day.
* * *
? ? ?
I messaged Ben.
Nothing wild. A simple hello.
What conversations do you have when you feel like there’s nothing you want to say?
I set down the phone, and his response came immediately.
Ben asked me to send him a picture.
It was mid-afternoon. I sent him a photo of the sky.
He responded immediately, the quickest he’d ever replied:
I recognized the gas station by the apartment. The telephone lines by the Pizza Hut. The way the letters faded on their outer edges.
He’d sent a photo of his own sky.
* * *
After that, for no reason at all, I sent Ben photos of the things around me.
* * *
The train station. Some old folks on a bench. A sweaty beer at the bar. Some random kids shooting and missing three-pointers by the McDonald’s. It didn’t tell him anything about how I was doing or how I’d been. It wasn’t like there was any information being disclosed. But it was a way of speaking, more or less.
And Ben sent me pictures of Ximena from work. Our front porch. Our neighbors. In one, the kids next door were throwing peace signs with their cat.
* * *
And how did everything come to such a turning point between us?
Quietly, I guess. The big moments are never big when they’re actually fucking happening.
So let’s play through it: We’re walking around the block one night. Sometimes, we still did that. It wasn’t a big production or anything, although by then Ben was throwing shit in every argument. And we argued pretty fucking often. I was generally unresponsive to that. Or I’d just call Ben spoiled. Fucking privileged. But. Still. Afterward, or more often beforehand, we’d walk from one end of the block to the other. If it wasn’t too hot, we’d turn the corner and head back. And one day Ben asked me, at the edge of the road, if I wanted to keep going.
Yeah, I said, I think so. Unless you wanna go further.
When he didn’t respond, I looked at his face.
We weren’t talking about the same thing.
But he didn’t bat my suggestion down. He saw the recognition in my eyes. All of a sudden we were on the same page. And we turned back together.
* * *
We didn’t say anything else the whole walk back. We didn’t fuck that night. But he held my hand until he fell asleep. I watched the way he cradled my fingers, and I tried to commit it to memory.
I’d break up with him the next evening. It would be better for us both.
When Ben flipped around, snoring, I tried to get that memory down, too.
* * *
But then, of course, Ma called to tell me about Eiju.
* * *
? ? ?
Questions my father has asked me since I’ve been in Japan: Where do you live now in Houston? What? Why there? Couldn’t find a bigger dump? You really think that’s racist? Are you kidding me? You really think you’ve suffered? Do you live alone? Well, what’s he doing? And he just let you go? To come here? To see me? And you think he really cares about you? You think anyone really cares about you? You think anyone really cares about us? Why’d you come here again? Calm down, it’s not a big deal, you can’t take a question but you think you’ve fucking been through some shit? What are we eating for dinner again?
* * *
One night, Takeshi and Hiro goaded Sana away from his family, already six beers into a drinking game when they walked through the door. They were past piss-drunk before I asked them to simmer down.
Bullshit, said Hiro.
You aren’t Eiju, said Sana.
Exactly, I said. Which means I’ll throw your asses out.
At that, they all just fucking looked at me. Like I’d broken some sacred rule. But they didn’t say anything about it either—they just did what I’d asked.
* * *
Later on, after all of this, they’d tell me, in that moment, I looked like him. That I sounded just like him.
* * *
On another night, Takeshi passed through the bar by himself. Usually, he was the loudest dude in his gaggle, but that evening he wasn’t saying much of anything. There was a comfortable silence. He drank, chain-smoking, and I made myself busy behind the counter, and before he took off, he left too much money under his coaster. But when I called his name he waved me off, headed back into the night.
* * *
The mornings weren’t exactly bright when I walked back to the apartment, and sometimes I’d pass the same huddle of kids at the station, dancing to Missy Elliott on their phones. They popped and locked by the escalator, pausing every now and again to watch one another. Whenever they saw me, they didn’t stop. They let me linger, just doing their thing.
* * *