Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #8

I should've known coffee with Nick was a stupid idea. We went to the Purple Onion (you can know this. With how busy it always is, you'd never know me from anyone else. I could probably give you an exact description and a mugshot, which I don't have, and you wouldn't be able to pick me out of the crowd.)

Anyway, he just took the time to subtly imply he was sleeping with some poor girl named Mila or Melody or something.

And he asked about classes. I think he was just trying to catch me in a lie, picking through phrases to throw at me and see if I've actually been busy. Which is an asshole thing to do. I still think he's worried I'm screwed up. Which...well, whatever.

This is stupid, but it's hard to trust a guy who dresses as preppy as he does. Polo shirts with khakis or dress pants and an ironed pink shirt. He talks about things like networking. If he's not talking about networking, he still gives off the used-car salesman vibe: slick words with a slimy undercurrent.

Even before this, I knew who he was.

I can't trust him, but besides you and me, he's the only one who exists on this plane. So it goes.

But I shouldn't have bothered with him. You know those things they say about hope? That it's a thing with feathers or whatever? I don't think that's true.

Because Nick and me, though we're on this plane, he can't see me. Invisibility, like hope, is crushing. Here and there and not here and there.

And I just... I try. I try to speak. But sitting at one of those two-person tables crushed in the back, him sipping a latte with double espresso and me with a black coffee, and I can't even look at him.

Instead, I pick at the cardboard sleeve on my coffee. The corners are sharp and I nick myself under my nail and finally glance at Nick when I put my finger to my mouth.

"M., are you even listening?" he asks, blowing air out through his nose. He's one of those bulls, pawing at the ground, raring to charge and run me down.

I nod, still sucking on my finger. But that's childish, right? Like thinking Nick is a bull. So I wipe it off on my jeans and fold my hands around my cup. The warmth seeps through the cardboard. There's something comforting about the heat off a cup of coffee and the chatter of a crowd pressing in.

They're here. I'm here.

"So what do you think?" he asks, pushing his hair away from his forehead. "I really like her, and I was thinking a picnic out on the Mall, but... Is that cheesy?"

He doesn't like her. He can say it all he wants, but he doesn't. His eyes keep flicking around as people glide through the front door, and his eyes linger over-long on the pretty girls. The lies and the truth swim in front of my eyes, blurry. And Nick blurs too, his dark hair melting into his freckles and blue eyes.

Nick sighs. "I'll figure it out. What about you? How's class going?"

My finger hurts. The warmth of the coffee, which I'm not drinking, is turning my palms sweaty. Salt drips into the cut, and it h u r t s.

And it's not just that. It's the way eyes are starting to dart my way, clawing at me and scratching up my skin. I'm here. I wish I wasn't. I wish they couldn't see me. I wish Nick's blue, blue eyes would stop boring into me and my chest would stop caving in and my pulse would stop racing in my ears.

Just stop.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the throbbing in my head. It does nothing. Nothing is fixed, and my hand comes away wet. I don't know when the tears sprang up and started leaking down my face. Blood echoes in my ears, pulsing louder. And louder. Nick reaches across the table and clutches at my hand, but I shrug him off. I can't hear him over my thundering pulse. Over my heartbeat. I can't see and can't hear and my heart is going to explode.

Go away, Nick. Go.

Everything melts together in front of me. Except Nick's eyes.

Stop. Stopstopstop.

I can't breathe. I wheeze, trying to suck in enough air. Trying to stop from drowning, to stop the eyes staring, to stop remembering, to stop stop stop.

But I. Can't. Breathe.

I'm going to die here, in a coffee shop. Because I can't breathe and my blood is pumping too, too fast and I'm dying in front of everyone. My hands slide across my face, swiping at the prickly tears. They act of their own accord. They shakily push back my hair, which is now tangled with saltwater.

My finger hurts, and I'm going to die here.

And everything will stop.