climbing it? Next to the ladder, there is a box. What is the box made out of? How big is it? Is there anything inside of it? Is it open or closed? Where is it compared to the ladder?
“Picture a storm coming in over your head. It then clears away,” she continues, really feeling it now. “Look up at the horizon. What do you see? Is it clear?” (I am grabbing at her now, but she pushes my hands away, pins my arms beneath her knees.)
“Go through this again and remember it like a movie,” she says, giggling. “The road represents how you see your own life and the path you are taking. It’s whether you see it as safe or dangerous and whether the people in it are good or bad. The ladder represents your relationships and friendships and whether they are strong and safe, and how important they are to you. The box represents how you see yourself, how strong you are and whether you are open or closed. Finally, the horizon represents how you see your future and whether you are hopeful or fearful.”
This was the first time we were together, when the band was just starting, when everyone was young and didn’t know any better. We were in my bedroom at my parents’ place because I hadn’t moved out yet. The bedroom is still exactly the same if you go there today. Same twin beds (“To keep the girls from staying over,” my mom would joke), same posters on the wall, same window looking out onto the same street. Frozen in time. We had just met a few weeks ago. I saw Her standing alone by the jukebox—one of those giant, gold-plated numbers with the colored lights and the bubbling water in the frame (the whole situation was so clichéd)—wearing a hoodie, chewing on Her thumb, Her wide eyes dancing around the room. She looked like a fawn separated from Her mother, spindly and unsure, waiting to be hit in the dark by the car called me. She looked like a sure thing.
I remember walking up to Her and dropping some terrible line. She laughed, but not in the good way. I asked what Her name was, and she just sipped on Her drink. She played it cool, just stared at me with those big, round eyes, yet to be blackened by mascara or life. It drove me wild. I remember the way I could feel my heart beating, as if it were up in my throat, and I remember thinking that I should probably just walk away. Imagine what my life would be like if I had?
But instead, I insisted. I pressed close to Her ear, begged Her, “Come on, just tell me your name.” She laughed (in the good way this time), called me persistent, told me Her name.
I tell Her my name. I have just offered Her the first piece of me. Time stands still, the way it does during a car crash. Bent metal and busted glass. My words hang heavy in the air, spiraling in slow motion. Leaden. We have creased time, made a pocket and stepped inside. Her and I, enveloped and alone. All sound fades away, all the edges blur. Such is the case in moments like these.
“I like you,” she says. “You’re brave.”
I’m not. I’m a total coward, only she doesn’t know that yet. We watch the band finish their set, standing next to each other with our hands stuffed deep into our pockets, neither of us sure what to do or say next. Occasionally, we sway into one another, accidentally (but on purpose), and we laugh nervously. I steal a glance at Her in the dark of the club, watch those big eyes quiver slightly whenever the light shifts. She’s concentrating hard, focused on the stage like a shipwrecked sailor scanning the horizon for rescue. She needs to be saved because she’s afraid of what will happen next. I want to reach out and hold Her hand—it’s such a simple, beautiful act, when you think about it—I want to let Her know that she can let go of the horizon and sink to the bottom with me.
I notice so many things about Her in this instant, things that I will never find in anyone else on the planet: the way she bites Her lower lip, the freckles on Her nose, the curve of Her neck. She’s amazing. I want to feel Her to make sure she’s real.