We are just too different

The dust of centuries is dancing in the rays of the morning sun. If silence could take any shape, that would be it: golden dust, swirling in the air. I wonder if it has ever occurred to you to compare silence with dust? I would bet everything I don’t possess – and believe me, that is a plethora of things! – that this idea has never visited your always-occupied mind. And then dust has never been invited to your perfectly decluttered home. At my place, dust is more than welcome. And I’m happy with it. 

Dust is dancing, and a brittle stack of unwashed dishes is singing, and they both make me proud as if I were their mom, invited to a school concert. They are here with me, in my heated kitchen where I’m sitting and enjoying steaming coffee. There is no rush, no hustle, I’m taking my morning time to indulge myself. You would never do this. You would be already all in sweat, fighting with these unwanted guests, and your abandoned coffee would grow icy-cold. And you would never warm your kitchen so much, no, never, until the end of time.

We are so different, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

Or, for example, let’s take your clothing style. 

You were born to be Parisian, even if, alas, you never leave this drab, gray, cold city of yours, for your favorite saying goes like this: “You are most useful in the place of your birth.” Another thing that is completely different about us, by the way. I believe that the world is too big to be stuck in one place, you think that you are too small not to be lost in it. But style, I was talking about your clothing style. 

Straight lines, plain fabrics – of the best quality you can afford –, and tons of shades of gray. You are literally bathing in gray, the color of dignity that’s what you call it. The color of noble people, people who don’t eat with their hands, don’t laugh loudly (and don’t have orgasms). Short hair, little make-up, and always, you should always look impeccable: no holes in your tights, no unpolished shoes, and, god forbid, no dirt under your nails! I don’t want to say that I dig the soil with my bare hands on a regular basis, but one may perceive sometimes that I was predatorily tearing up my Nutella crêpe. 

Life happens to me. To your – never. That is why I have stains on the white turtleneck that I wear at home. Can you imagine this? Wearing white at home! White cashmere turtleneck that costs a fortune, I, the most awkward person in the world, dare put on when I know that I will stay at home. I also dare put on red lipstick at eight in the morning just for myself. Because I don’t dress to impress people. I don’t live for other people. And that is what is so different about us. 

I don’t really remember, if you ask me, when it started to matter to me that I wasn’t like you. Difficult to say. Our memory loves playing its wicked tricks on us as if life was already a piece of cake. I can literally imagine our brain grinning and singing in Michael Scott’s voice, “A little bit of magic la la la la.” La la and you forget what your name is. So sorry, no exact day. 

But what I do remember, on the other hand, is that it was very important for me to be like you when I was a teenager. It was as if my life depended on it. And in a way, it did depend on our resemblance, for you could never accept otherness. Not under your roof, at least. 

So I was wearing my hair short, the gray color was my best friend, and I hated my father. Just the way you did. I would never express my real opinion because I knew that you would treat it as a betrayal. And oh no, dear, I didn’t want to betray you. Everyone had done it: my father, grandma, but not me. I was always there for you, holding your anorexic back. 

With food, the story was different, by the way. That was the only topic where I wasn’t allowed to be like you. You ate nothing, and I was supposed to have a second helping so that you would always feel sublime and extremely – anorexically – graceful. This weight difference, a gift from you, I’m still keeping to myself, for food may sometimes replace all comforting words I have ever needed from you. 

And so I was like you, your copy, your clone, hoping to get a tiny slice of love from you. Following you and your superficial thoughts like a shadow. Shadow, your shadow. That is what I was. A gray shadow on a gray day, because in your life, the sun didn’t exist.

But one day – and one more time, sorry for my forgetfulness, because I can’t say when it happened exactly – I heard another kind of music. More cheerful and intense, full of life and passion and desire. It was the music of faraway countries and long-distance calls. It called me, and I couldn’t help following it. It is just for nine months, I was saying. Just to gain more experience. And then I’ll be back, your loyal servant, your faithful shadow. 

And I was never back again. 

Life never happens to you. But it happened to me.

I discovered that it was more than okay to talk about books. And it wasn’t highbrow. And not snobbish. And that there were people who also loved to read books and talked about them.

It turned out that the red color was my color and that I felt bold and creative and outspoken in it. And speaking, I could actually speak my mind, and people would still love me. 

I found out that my apartment could be a mess, and lightning would not strike me. 

My hair could be long.

My life could be happy.

And it was great to enjoy myself. 

One morning – no exact date, don’t forget –, I looked in the mirror and saw myself for the first time. Not you, but myself. And I was blissful, I was different. I wasn’t you, and I could still exist.

I can still exist. 

Yesterday morning, on my birthday, I called you. It is always me who call. The unspoken rule of our communication. I called you, and your voice was cold like your coffee. And it was distant, but not because of the thousands of kilometers that set us apart. I was trying to tell you about my life, to scatter the conversation with some based-on-true-stories jokes. In other words, I wanted my life to sound interesting to you. But all I got from you was this indifferent uh-huh that stung my heart. Tears of despair were about to pour down and wipe off my red lipstick, the epitome of my freedom, and for the first time in my life I took my courage in both hands and asked, “Why don’t you love me?”

“We are just too different,” was the only thing I got.