When You’re Not Allowed To Love Them
“You’re bullshitting me, right?”
The clanging of dishes fills our silence. I twirl my fork against my index finger and stare at it. Barry and I sit in the restaurant. I’m at a loss of words which is always unusual. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable like with most people. With him it’s more of a contemplative companionship.
“He’s that just right puzzle piece fit. He’s quite lucky then,” Barry says.
I press the fork against the table cloth. It’s almost like an empty threat. My lips purse with a raise of one eyebrow.
“Quite lucky? With me? You’re bullshitting me. Ain’t no one lucky to have me.”
It’s Barry’s turn to crack a smile. His laughter rumbles from deep within his throat. There’s this twinkle in his brown eyes. Like I’m such an amusing, unusual case of a human being. I’m thrown aback with what caused his outburst of laughter.
“Mel, you are a fucking spitfire. I’m not bullshitting you. You choose your people carefully. To be someone so important… to risk so much, that’s a hell of a piece he is.”
I don’t know why but I’m pouting at Barry. It’s something mixed with a sort of defiant glimmer. I grab another piece of the bread on our table. I pop it into my mouth like it’s a welcome distraction.
My eyes survey the restaurant we’re in. The tables next to us are empty. I lean back in my seat with my arms folded in front of my chest.
“How do you know so much about me?”
“You remind me of her. She had this bluntness about her. And, honestly I read people for fun.”
Barry taps the part of the table where my hand was. I return it back to the linen feel of the tablecloth. My hips rotate slightly as I cross my ankles. My elbows lean onto the table. My eyes stare into his with that desperate, singular question he keeps avoiding.
“Please tell me what happened with her?”
I ask him in a genuine tone. Barry brings his hand back. Like I burned him and he’s protecting that body part. His brown eyes flash with something that I can’t place. Is it hurt? Pain? Or just a resolution to not feel anymore?
“She ended up with someone else. Simple. I don’t touch that. If she returns to me, she does, if not I’m grateful for her.”
I snort at his reply. It’s something that is trying to be devoid of feeling. I can see it leaching from his skin right now. His coolness, calmness melts away. His hand rubs against the back of his neck.
“You know it’s more than that. How’d you meet?”
Barry sighs. His hand slides underneath his chin. He absentmindedly rubs the hairs. I notice how he starts to chew his bottom lip. As if becoming aware of how I study him he abruptly stops.
“Serendipitously, that’s how all the best things are found. When you don’t search. We became aware of each other, bantered, and it was history. The last thing I ever fucking wanted was love.”
“Ditto. I don’t believe in it.”
I tap a finger to my nose. Barry ends up chuckling at my comment. He shakes his head.
“Yet, here you are with me. Asking about this woman. You won’t let her fade from me.”
I grin at Barry. It’s that sort of smile where I’m more than aware that I’m a trouble maker. The servers approach us with our meals. They call out for my burger and he has a vodka sauce pasta with chicken. I eyeball the random green within the dish.
Our food just sits in front of us. Neither of us will take the first bite. I take a knife to slice into my medium rare patty. The blood oozes out of it. I pause with my slicing.
“She’s attached to you. A ghost that haunts you. Every time you look at me I can see it. That far away look. That claim of another’s soul touching yours,” I tell Barry.
There’s this hint of a sad smile on his lips. Barry’s shoulders haunch forward. It’s such a slight movement but I catch it.
He mixes the pasta in the dish. The steam from his food rises up. I grab the burger and bring it to my lips. I can taste the juiciness as if I’ve already had my first bite.
“Tell me about him. About this man you refuse to love. Yet, he’s become an important puzzle piece,” Barry says.
I pause with that first bite. My mouth becomes dry.
“There’s not enough Whiskey to be supplied,” I mumble.
I eyeball the waiter as he serves another table. There’s a part of me that wants to toss a drink back. I resist it and put down my burger.
“Please, Mel. I’m curious.”
“Eventually I’ll tell the story. First… food.”
Barry chuckles at my statement. He stabs his pasta and pops it in his mouth. I take a steadying breath and grab my burger again. Our conversation fades into that understanding, relative silence we have.
