take them, so I tossed the pile onto the seat next to him.
We sat in silence for a few moments. I was determined to say nothing more. I had done what I had promised to do.
Suddenly he asked, “Are you honest?”
I was confused. Was he asking about my reasons for returning the stuff? Was he asking about my faithfulness? Did he know our conversation was being overheard? After a pause that I felt sure would give away my guilt, I clasped my hands, willing them to stop shaking, and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Have you ever been honest with me?”
“I’ve always been honest,” I answered, trying not to sound as guilty as I felt.
He studied me for a moment, his face looking as if he were trying to puzzle out the meaning of one of the abstract paintings he found so laughable. “It’s a shame you’re so beautiful. It’s easy to hide one’s true self with beauty, don’t you think? No one ever looks past the outside to see the filth that truly lies inside.”
I took a moment to compose myself before I spoke, letting his word filth hang in the air. He had to know someone was listening. Or if he did not, he truly hated me. Never, in all the times we had broken up, was he anything but jovial and reassuring. He had never insulted me. It was always an attempt “to be practical,” which was a thinly veiled excuse to play the field. But this… was new, and it hurt. “I don’t know why you’re saying this.”
“You’re suggesting that I loved you once,” he said.
I whispered, “You made me believe it.”
“You shouldn’t have. I never loved you.”
I looked for signs of a laugh that would follow this ridiculous statement, a laugh that would be used to placate me. But no laugh came. “Wow. Then I… am a fool,” I said.
His face was blank. How could he make such a claim so calmly? He was the one who freaked out when I told him we shouldn’t talk for a while. He was the one who reached for me each time I came near. He was the one who whispered words of love and sent the kind of messages only someone with feelings, real feelings, for another person could write. Or was I wrong? All the times I tried to protect myself. All the times I tried to listen to Laertes (if not my father) and keep Hamlet at a distance… Each time Hamlet begged me to be his, to surrender to this love. I did. My brother asked it best: “R u stupid?” burned in my mind. Maybe I was.
I turned to the partition behind me, hoping someone would understand that this was enough. I had been humiliated and the game was over. But there was no movement, so I took a moment to wipe away my tears and see my own anguished expression in the smoky reflection.
He got onto his knees, leaned close to my face, and whispered, “Men are pigs. Don’t believe any of us.”
Then he kissed me. I was angry and confused, unsure of whether to give in or to push him away. Every moment since he’d opened the door had been so wrong, and kissing Hamlet always felt right. But this was different. If a kiss could be revenge, this was it. Its aggression deepened my fear.
And yet, part of me thought that his final words might be the key. Maybe this was an act, and the kiss was to let me know he knew others were watching. I thought that maybe if I kissed him back, he might know I understood. Or if he was serious, my kiss might make him remember that we loved each other and remind him that I was not the enemy.
Wanting to erase all of the trickery I had committed in luring him into the conversation in the first place, I kissed him back. I let him pull me down onto the seat. But then I remembered we weren’t alone, and I turned my head toward the partition. I tried to push away, panic-stricken by the thought of my father witnessing any of what we were doing.
Hamlet pulled back and asked, “Where’s your father?”
Involuntarily, my gaze went to the control panel above our heads. He saw me look at it and, seeing the red Speak button lit, reached for the adjacent Open Partition button, but the window separating us from the front seat did not budge. He