On Making Choices

She has a vague idea of what it was like before. No, not a idea, an
impression, a suspicion, that things weren't always this way. A distant
memory that, distorted by the passage of time and feelings, and
probably idealized through the same media, appeared in her head like
this:
A small room, sunshine and a fresh, slightly cold, breeze coming
through the open window. Walls covered in great sheets of brown paper,
covered, in turn, in painted footprints, handprints, smiling faces and
strange, imaginary flowers. Colourful spreads draped over two armchairs
and an old, triangular sofa. A small, wooden coffee table. A white
teapot, two yellow mugs. Two girls, sitting, almost sinking into the
sofa. Holding a lit cigarette each. Silent at first, enjoying the music
("Mr. Jones", by the Counting Crows, it's all they ever listen to these
days), and each other's company. Occasionally, they sing along to their
favourite bits of the song. They look at each other and giggle. Eileen,
tall, blonde, and beautiful, wearing a long purple dress, is the first
to speak.
'Well, the way I see it, there isn't really anything to think
about.'
Her friend, slightly plainer in appearance, and darker, hesitates for a
minute.
'Isn't there?' she asks.
'No. I mean, look at it this way: You've got a stranger, who you've
only met once. OK, he's extremely good looking, and he wants to go on a
date with you. Great. And then you've got someone who you know, and
trust, and can talk to. He makes you laugh. You like him. And he's just
told you he's in love with you.
Who do you choose?'
'Number two?'
'Exactly. Go for what makes you happy.'
'Jim does?'
'I know. And as long as he does, there's no reason why you shouldn't be
with him.'
'True.'
And case closed. A choice has been made: The one that makes her happy.
And with that, they forget all about it. Eileen gets up to pour some
more tea into their mugs, and change the CD.
'Don't! Put "Mr. Jones" back on.'
'On repeat?'
'Of course?'
They sink back into the sofa. Outside, it's getting darker. The tea is
almost cold. And the girls light their respective cigarettes, and stay
up all night, making up stories about a white house with front and back
gardens, and big windows, perfect boyfriends that cook for them in the
kitchen (equipped with juicers, blenders, and anything else a good
kitchen should have), and happiness. And the Counting Crows never get
tired of singing to them:
"Mr. Jones and me tell each other fairy tales,
and we stare at the beautiful women,
she's perfect for you,
there's got to be somebody for me?"

She has done something she'd sworn never to do: Chosen her boyfriend
over her friends. She's become one of those girls that have no use for
I anymore. All she knows is We.
We are going out for dinner.
We are staying in tonight.
We had such a good time at your party.
We will call you soon.
The We that excludes everyone else. Because we don't need anyone else.
We've got each other.
And she's forgotten that lecture she used to give to any of her friends
who got a little bit too coupley : Boyfriends come and go, but friends
are forever. And when the boyfriends go, and you've neglected all your
friends, who will you turn to?
Well, she thinks, what did I know? I mean, if we're talking about
something casual, yeah, fair enough, but this is the real thing. You've
gotta make an exception for that. Her friends stop calling her to
suggest nights out because she always refuses, and when they invite her
to parties, they know she'll leave before everyone else because 'we
can't stand to be apart for too long.'
And she's kind of surprised at how much she's changed, but proud, too.
This new person she's become is no longer alone. She's part of
something, and isn't that what everybody wants? She has a partner, an
ally, a friend that's exclusively hers. She doesn't want to
share.
She's not worried. We will last forever. No doubt about it.

Greece in the summer, early July. Late afternoon. They are waiting at a
bus stop, temporarily sheltered from the sun. She's wearing a white
bikini top, and a bright orange sarong. He's only got his black shorts
on, that she bought for him a couple of days before they left. They're
both tanned, and smiling like idiots. They've just missed the bus to
the beach, but who cares. It's a hot summer's day, and they're
together.
They finally arrive at the beach an hour later than planned. A quick
drink at the caf?, beer for him, orange juice for her, and then they
jump into the sea. He is amazed at how clear, and warm, the water is.
She can only think how gorgeous he looks when he smiles. He smiles a
lot that day.
And so the day goes by, with a bit of swimming, drinking, and
sunbathing. And at night they stay in, sit on the roof of their little
white house, and watch the stars.
And that's it: Two weeks in Greece, two people with nothing to worry
about, another idealized memory. Their justification for staying
together for so long. A sunny holiday, and the conviction that things
could always be that way. In a perfect world. In another lifetime.
Under different circumstances. Things could be so good.

With her back against the wall, his hands, firmly, painfully on her
shoulders, this is what she's thinking: Who is this man?
What she says is different, and a direct reference to things they used
to watch on TV, and laugh. Except it's not funny. Not when it's her
voice, high-pitched, hysterical, that screams:
'Why don't you hit me then, huh? Why don't you just go ahead and do it?
That's what you want, isn't it?'
And she is waiting to be told that, no, that isn't what he wants.
And she is waiting for him to hit her, because then she will have to
leave. The burden of choice will be taken off her shoulders, along with
his hands, and leaving will become a necessity.
He does neither. Instead, he starts shaking her, to shut her up,
shaking her so hard that it feels as if her entire world is turned
upside down, inside out, and re-arranged in a way that she doesn't even
recognize it. Like she doesn't recognize him. And that's when she gets
scared.
This is how she spent last New Year's Eve. The same, historical
Millennium Eve that the entire world spent months planning, waiting
for. While others were
drinking champagne, dancing, and making wishes, she was held against
the wall by a furious stranger. The stranger that is her boyfriend, and
makes a habit of becoming a stranger from time to time.

There is this girl that haunts me. She has no name and no character.
She is known as Jim's girlfriend, and she lives Jim's life. She does
exactly as she's told. She does Jim's shopping, his laundry, and his
job. He calls her a selfish little bitch, she calls him babe. And apart
from pity for this girl, I would feel nothing, except, when she's
alone, she turns into me. And I punch the walls and kick the furniture
and scream when I know no one can hear me. I tell the girl she deserves
so much more, that he's wasting her life. I promise her, and myself,
that I will leave. She agrees.
Jim enters the room, and he smiles. I dissolve into the background and,
from that place where she keeps me inside her, I can see her smiling
back at him.

'So, when was the last time Jim was genuinely nice to you?'
'Well? I guess it was last month, when he took me to hospital.'
'No. That's not nice, that's necessary. I mean nice, for no
reason.'
'I don't know? What do you mean?'
'I'll give you an example: Last Friday, Richard picked me up from work
at 2 in the morning, ran me a bath and cooked dinner for me. Has Jim
done anything like that recently?'
'No, but?'
'Has he?'
'No! But he works, he hasn't got time.'
'Richard works from 8 in the morning till about 9 at night. He still
finds the time to do things for his girlfriend.'
'Yeah but?'
'But Jim can't be bothered, because he's too busy playing on his
Playstation, or getting pissed, or just ignoring you. Because he takes
you for granted, that's why.'
'He's nice sometimes, though.'
'Sometimes is not good enough. Not when he treats you like shit the
rest of the time. Listen, I'm not trying to prove my boyfriend is
better that yours. I mean, you know Richard's hardly perfect. But at
least he's got some respect and consideration for me. That's how it
should be.'
'I know. Don't you think I know? '
So there. I've said it: I know. But I do nothing about it. I wait, and
hope things will change. I wait, and they don't. I wait until it gets
so bad that I can't wait anymore.
I can't wait to get away from him.

The phone rings at 3 am. I shouldn't answer it, but I do. He says he's
sorry to disturb me, he just wanted to say he misses me. He starts
crying, and begs me to come back. He needs me, can't go on without me,
how could I do this to him? I tell him that I miss him too, but too
much has happened, too much has been said between us that shouldn't
have. That we can't just erase it. That it's too late.
And then he brings it up again. That holiday.
'Do you remember?' he asks. 'Did it mean nothing to you? I could come
over there right now, and we will be as happy as we were last summer.
Remember? I can make you the happiest woman in the world, if you give
me the chance.'
If I could, I would.
If I had the energy, I would try.
If I had his word, I would give him mine.
If I could believe him, it would be OK.
If I could forget, we could start over.
If my heart wasn't broken, I could love him again.
I have no faith, and no reason to believe that this time will be any
different.

Jim:
A) My boyfriend of almost two years.
B) A vicious, bitter man, who I've never met before in my life.
C) My ex-boyfriend of almost two years, who I loved and lost, because
he turned into a vicious, bitter man who I didn't want to know.
How, when, why we went from A to B I'm not sure. I'm working on
it.
But we finally arrived at C yesterday, at approximately 2.32 pm, when I
told him, for the twentieth, painful time that it was over.
No. I didn't want to think about it for a few more days.
No. I couldn't give him one last chance.
No. I didn't believe that he would change.
No. I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing, but I'd do it
anyway.
Yes. Things used to be good.
Yes. It could have been different, if we'd both tried a little
harder.
Yes. I loved him.
No. I wouldn't forget him.
No. There was nothing he could say to change my mind.
No. I wasn't sleeping with anyone else.
Yes. I was sure.
Yes. I knew he didn't really mean it.
No. I couldn't stop crying.
No. The fact that I was crying didn't mean I'd changed my mind.
No. I'd thought about it long enough.
Yes. That was really it.
Yes. I'd call him if I needed anything.
Yes. I knew he loved me.
In so many words. And more. The hardest thing I ever had to do, the
most painful experience of my life, the one thing that I was terrified
of ever since I met him, and it went on and on. Every time he spoke,
another chance for me to take it all back. But I didn't. Because
however much I love A, and however much my heart aches for C, it's B
that I remember. And he's someone I never want to meet again.

I am Eileen's shorter, darker friend.
I am the girl who can only accept herself as one half of a
couple.
I am the one who spent New Year's Eve between a dirty pub wall and an
angry man.
I am a selfish little bitch.
I am taken for granted.
I am the happiest woman in the world, in a bright orange sarong.
I am the one who left.
I am all, and none of the above.
I am scared, but I've made my choice. From a list of bad things, I
choose the hardest one. And I'll regret it a thousand times. I'll wish
I'd taken the little that was on offer, anything, rather than this. But
I know the clich? about time: It'll be OK.
I remember Eileen, Mr. Jones, and choosing what makes you happy. From
list of bad things, I chose the best one.
I'm not happy, but I will be.
I am alone, but people call me by my name.