Talking in Code

I WANT YOU I NEED YOU I HAVE YOU I NECK YOU I FEED YOU I EDIT YOU I FORM YOU I HELP YOU I KICK YOU I GOAD YOU I FUCK YOU I HEAR YOU I MOCK YOU I RIDE YOU I OOZE YOU I RING YOU I TAME YOU I URGE YOU I PICK YOU I YANK YOU I SHED YOU.

How am I meant to know which you 143 mean, leaving this pale green heart on my desk? Funny that all the words I can think of are present tense, other than I USED YOU, and even that is something that would bleed into the future present. There’s no future in 143, there’s no room for WILL. 

I put the chalky candy in my shirt pocket, quickly, because don’t you mean it as a 133? Any conversation is only good as its end and all 143s lead to 133: I OUT YOU.

When my pager vibrates I hope it’s you, ever since my first day when 07734 showed up on the screen and you had to explain to me, over coffee in the staff lounge, to turn it upside down. HELLO. I wrote 14 back, even though you were standing right there, and you smiled.

That was nearly six months ago, when we were noticing paper falling on our desks instead of the leaves falling outside. Soon after, on a rare day off, you sent another message: 603. I had no clue what it meant; I turned it upside down and sideways, said it aloud and backwards, but couldn’t crack the code. I’m new at this, you knew that, and I wonder if you knew that I’d grab my coat and spend the day in the library, copying codes into my notebook. I still have it; 603 is at the top, HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER. I’d been battling a cold, I didn’t think you’d noticed, I’d been trying hard to keep from sniffling too loudly. 

There were soon two lists in my notebook: a code dictionary, and a record of our messages. 316-217, when you needed me to join a meeting. 416 when you found my glasses, forgotten, in the stacks of the archive. 312 to let me  know you’d be home for the day.

You wrote 406, once, and I joined you on the balcony for a cigarette. I only inhaled once, and not even all the way, before hacking, and you gave me a slap on the shoulder with a laugh. 611–I’M SORRY–came right after we’d returned to our desks.

And you said that 113 meant COFFEE, but my notebook had it down for LOST. Either way, that code meant to start a pot, to linger in the lounge until you came in and made comments about the dean or the weather, nothing really, but those were the best moments of my day. I often felt that our relationship existed only in code; we interacted in the real world, but those numbers were always saying more than we were. Once I covered for you, a small thing, I don’t even remember what it was, and you wrote 423-608-613. PAPERWORK-I OWE YOU ONE-GET YOURSELF HOME. Such intimacies that I’d never be able to voice myself, yet felt natural in this little black box on my hip.

And now–And now, you’ve left that 143 on my desk, I saw you drop it on your way to the balcony. You dropped one on everyone’s desk, but I read all the others, they say HUG ME and BE MINE and KISS ME, too forward to be of any real meaning

 But that 143? That code? Our code? Did you choose that one or did you place it haphazardly on my papers? I couldn’t tell. The problem with language  is that the dictionary is not a god, it’s a suggestion. People mold words and codes into their own meaning. We’re linguists, if anyone should know it ought to be us, that true communication is as impossible as…well, as impossible as this heart burning a hole in my pocket.

And let’s say it is a 143, a true one. The 133, while the biggest issue, isn’t the only worry. Just as inevitable are 611, 218, 616, 600, 120, 618. I’M SORRY-I’M LEAVING-STAY AWAY FOR AWHILE-UNAVAILABLE-THIS IS MY LAST PAGE.

And I don’t think I’ll know what to do, with messages like that. Maybe they’re worth it, just for what could come before, the 612s (THINKING ABOUT YOU) and 318-605ss (MY PLACE-NOW) and 622s (YOU WERE INCREDIBLE).

No. It’s not worth it, and I’m reading into the meaning, anyway, it’s like talking to an alien race and thinking everything’s understood. This was placed offhandedly, or if purposely, cynically, and the fact that I’ve been staring at the wall for the past ten minutes, my mind offline, is proof enough that nothing is to come of this. It would mean our jobs, our grant, our working relationship, our friendship. The way our hands brush as we reach for a packet of sugar, the thud of our shoes walking in sync along the tiled hall, the underlined notes in my drafts where you write praises and corrections, the times my shoulder leans against yours as we watch the snow fall: these silent moments.

No future codes are worth losing that.

I try to work, normally focus isn’t an issue but today the words are swimming in front of my eyes, ungraspable, and I jump when my hip vibrates. It’s you, and you’ve only written a 0.

I have to pull out my notebook, because you’ve never used that before, and I see that it’s sometimes used to represent a question mark. You’ve never used it before, all your messages have been assured and final. I think about writing a 0 right back, to show my confusion, but that feels like cheating. I can see the crown of your head on the other side of the office, it looks like you’re focused on your research like a good employee. Perhaps it was sent accidentally.

I flip through the pages for inspiration, finally landing on 113-0. An unbearable moment passes before you stand and head to the lounge. I follow before I can talk myself out of it, and instead of pretending to make coffee you’re standing at the doorway, hair more unkempt that I’ve seen, like you’ve been running your hands through it, and you say WELL, or maybe you say 0, either way it’s in code, and your gaze falls to my hand and we both stare at the green residue on my fingertips. 143, you say, and my brain stutters but yes, 143, I don’t care what comes before or after, I don’t care if something is lost in translation, 143, 143.