There's
two things I've learned over the years; two rules to live by above all others.
The first is to keep quiet. The second is, if you can't keep quiet, keep count.
As
rules go, they're admittedly pretty easy to abide by. See, I have this curse.
Well, really, It’s more like I’m cursing others, rather than being cursed
myself. If I ever speak more than one-hundred words to someone, they will die. So
the first rule is especially simple: I can't speak more than a hundred words to
anyone, but I could write them the text of War & Peace just fine. In the
world of emails, text messages, and social media, that gets most of my bases
covered. When you have to speak, short, terse sentences might seem rude, but
are perfectly acceptable. Plus, it turns out that, with a few notable
exceptions, most people just don't care what I have to say anyway.
The
second one is trickier. I mean, if I follow the first rule, it doesn't really
matter anyway. But of course there are times I don't, and then it's essential I
keep track of everything. There's a little spiral ring notepad I keep stashed
in my left pocket at all times I use for it. Each time I talk to someone new,
they get their own page, with tally marks to keep track of every word. Most of
them are sparse; some kid across the street has one from when he almost got hit
by a car playing basketball. The landlord's got seventeen, since you were kind
enough to do most of the talking. Some cop who pulled me over once has around
twenty, my boss has forty something, mostly from my interview, the doctor has
about slightly over fifty, and you've got...well, you've got the most. I know
you're proud of it, but I hate saying the number. It terrifies me.
Back
to the point: Keeping quiet, and keeping count. The two central pillars I
follow to keep you and everyone else out of the morgue. And I like to think
that, for the most part, I had it down to a science. Headphones in public to
keep any talkative folks at bay, curt nods at the office to kill off any
conversations before they start. First day at work, I sent a mass message to
the office asking to ONLY communicate with me through email, no exceptions. Did
everyone think I was an asshole? Sure, but it's better that than being the
friendliest mass murderer in the company. As for everyone else, there's not
really many people you need to talk to. I spent most nights at home, I ordered
most everything I needed online, I don't have any family left to speak with,
and I certainly didn't spend much time outside. And like I said, for most
people, there's just not enough interest in what I have to say for it to become
an issue. But you've never really been “most people”, have you?
I
still remember the first time we met. It was possibly the most cliché thing
that's ever happened. Bumping into the cute new girl in the apartment building as
she's carrying her boxes up the stairs? It's out of a bad RomCom, and we both
know it. Of course you apologized and introduced yourself after, and of course
I said nothing and kept walking. The rest of the apartment already wrote me off
as a jerk; even if I said hello, I figured someone else would convince you of
it eventually. It was the first time I'd doubt your perseverance.
It
was about a week later when you cornered me in the elevator. By instinct, I
popped my headphones in and hoped you'd get the message. But I underestimated
your tenacity, and instead you asked me who I was listening to. You've never
been very good at picking up signals, you know that? It'd be something to work
on. I kept quiet, but you stayed insistent on getting SOMETHING from me.
Eventually you asked me if you could at least know what my name was.
To
this day, I'm not sure what I was thinking in that moment. Every instinct was
to say nothing. Every strand of common sense screamed to say nothing. The
ghosts of everyone who ignoring common sense and instinct had cost me pleaded
to say nothing. But your eyes wanted me to say something, and for reasons my
head didn't understand, my voice decided that trumped all.
“Thomas.”
That
was the first word I said to you. I cursed myself for it; first words were the
worst. First words meant having to add another name to my spiral notepad. First
words were the first step towards last words. First words are something I've
dedicated my life to avoiding. But first words had never caused a smile like
the one you gave me before, so at the time, it almost felt worth it. Almost.
That
first word became second, which became third, which became fourth. Once the
first leak in the dam cracks through, the rest peak out not long after. It was
like a kind of guilty pleasure, at the time; you were still a stranger then. I
knew I shouldn't be speaking to you, but I figured I could let just a few slip
out, here and there, before cutting you out of my life safely. I set the limit
at thirty; thirty words with the cute girl down the hall. It was the closest I
had to flirting, I suppose.
Later,
of course, those were the words I regretted the most. Wasted words like
“How's your day?”
“Nice weather”
“Take care”
that
took up tallies on your page that could have been saved for better, more
important words. You told me that, without them, we might have never become
close enough for that tally to matter, but I'm not so sure its true. Even then,
something about you seemed to know how important those words were. Maybe
something in my voice gave away how precious and guarded they were. Of course,
you'll tell me you're just a talker, but every little question got large
answers. You'd describe every detail of your day as we walked up five flights
of steps and then killed time in the hallway, my nods enough of a contribution
for you to keep going. Little by little, you started to become the closest
thing I've ever had to a friend.
So
that's why I had to tell you. Again, I couldn't tell you why if you put a gun
to my head, but something about you compelled me to write you a note to tell
you everything. Why I could never say more than just a few words to you during
our “conversations”. How it had cost me my parents, two teachers and about half
a dozen classmates to learn that. How I was a stupid, selfish idiot to ever
endanger you by talking to you in the first place. I wrote all this down in a
note, and, before I could second guess myself, I slipped it under your door one
night.
You
thought it was horseshit, of course. I would too, after all. You asked me if it
was a joke, and said there were easier ways to say I just didn't want to talk
to you anymore. But knew you'd do this; again, I couldn't blame you. So I
showed you my parents obituaries, along with my teachers and classmates. I
showed you how they had all died in their sleep, with no real explanation as to
how. I explained it all with notebooks and written words; for the first time,
you were quiet, and I couldn't stop talking. When I was done, I was sure you'd
get up and leave. Instead, you asked me if this meant that I'd been spending my
whole life alone. When I nodded, you took my hand and told me I shouldn't have
to.
I
looked you in the eyes; you looked back and smiled. I know I shouldn't have,
but again, my voice couldn't help it.
“Thank you.”
I
was at about thirty words when I told you everything; from then on, my every
word became even more valuable. For the first time, something other than tally
marks went in my notepad, as I'd finally write the answers to questions I'd
always meant to give you during the weeks before. I went out and saw the world
with you; really saw it, for the first time in years. We went out at night, we
walked through the woods during the day, we did everything together. You
handled all the talking, to my eternal gratitude. I'm not sure when exactly we
went from two friends to something more, but when I first took your hand in
mine, and when we kissed each other for the first time, it felt to me like
something that had been waiting for me my whole life.
“I love you.”
Words
41, 42, and 43 right there. I said it again after our first year anniversary,
bringing us up to an even 46. The first time had been spontaneous though; the
light caught you in just the right way, and I knew it was the right moment.
“Will you marry me?
That
took us to 50; I won't lie, I was always pretty happy the way that worked out.
I also had to use up about forty words with the guy at the jewelry shop; let's
hope I never have to go there again.
“I do.”
That
was 52. They're also the only words I could say definitively I would never take
back.
“I love you.”
Anniversaries
always brought those words; our first, second and fifth all had me say them. I
wished I could have said them on the third and fourth, but we were on the wrong
side of fifty, and even with just those we were up to 61. The ten year probably
would have been the next time.
“You okay?”
62
and 63. You had been coughing for a while at that point, but this time was the
worst. When I saw the blood, that settled it. I had to add '911 Operator' to my
notepad after that.
“I love you.”
Waiting
for the results brought us up to 66.
“I love you.”
Getting
the results made it 69; it didn't seem to matter then.
“I love you.”
72;
I held your hand for as long as I could as they wheeled you into the operating
room.
“I'm sorry. I love you.”
77.
We're
sitting in the hospital room now. The doctor just left; he's at 53. Normally
I'd wonder what he'd think about someone being this terse when discussing their
wife, but even under normal circumstances I think this would be a time when
there wouldn't be much to say.
Even
though its so much more slender and fragile now, your hand still fits as
perfectly into mine as it always did. Somehow you manage a smile, though I can
tell by the tired look in your eyes you're doing it for me, not because you
want to. I return the favor the best I can.
I
start pulling out my notepad; I want to talk about where to go from here now,
and what sort of options we might have, but you stop me. You push the pen out
of my fingertips and tell me it doesn't matter. That none of the options are as
appealing as going to sleep after a long conversation with your husband. And
that nothing would make you happier than hearing my voice.
For
the first time in my life, I don't have to keep quiet, and I don't have to keep
count.
And
I don't know what to say.
