And Then He...

We sat across from each other in the bright restaurant. There were so many things to say, and so many things that had already been said. Everything was robotic and sterile and serious and wrong. Technology had stunted the healing of the relationship; facebook and text messaging made it to easy to proclaim 'i'm sorries' and 'i miss you's.' And now we were left with the real physical fact of our bodies that used to move closely and with familarity, now moved jerkily around one another's, not sure where to rest. Even walking to the restaurant had been tense with unfamiliar movements: a nod when there should have been a kiss, hands held inches apart when walking that used to clasp warmly and with confidence.
So we sipped water and watched others in the place smile warmly and woodenly. We hoped to do the same, but time was not on our side, and neither were words. Sentiments easily voiced through the vessel of a computer or a phone are so hard to work through the lips. Lips and tongues are easily hurt; to bite ones tongue, to bite your lip: to take back what you wish you hadn't said. Harder without a delete button.  We sat there and it felt like hours when it had only been minutes.
It was fucking uncomfortable.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" I wanted to go somewhere else. I didn't know how to exist here. I felt like smiling crazily, which is always a sign I am uncomfortable. I have the weird tic of smiling with teeth when something horrible happens.  "Like... a bar? Somewhere... Not here."
Here was bright and clean and neat and somewhere a couple would go if they had a celebration. If they wanted to drink a clean white wine with their quince.
"I don't want quince."
"What?"
"I mean...We can stay here if you want. But I... Um. We should go to the bar next door. And drink."
"Okay."

We ordered a pitcher in a dark bar and it felt the way I felt. Guilty and worse for wear. Dark and frequented by dark people and dark thoughts. But comfortable. The bar didn't put on airs; it fucked up and it regretted things. But it existed and woke up every day and started again.
I am the bar in this metaphor.

We drank a lot, we talked less then I thought. We didn't need to talk as much as I thought we would. There was not really anything left to say. He held my hand and it felt perfect.
Later when he kissed me, I would hear music.