A Thousand Words Unsaid

Manhattan, New York

Friday, May 28

4:57 PM 

Hey. I know you probably don’t want to hear from me anymore, but I just wanted to see if you were okay. I’m sorry. Again. I promise you I wanted to come. It's just…well, it’s a lot. Maybe we could talk sometime. Then I could explain myself. 

I stare at the message for a while, trying to build up the courage to press send. As usual, my patience is in vain, and I prove to be just as cowardly as yesterday. With a sigh of defeat, I delete today’s variation of an apology and click on her profile. She’s active now, probably giving her attention to some guy who’s taller, more handsome, and more successful than I am. Someone who doesn’t have a dad bod or a bald spot. I’d take it personally if she actually knew what I looked like.

After my best friend died, I tried everything to help me sleep - counting sheep, meditating, drugs. But nothing ever worked. For months, no matter what I did, when I closed my eyes at night the only thing I could see was Jake’s disfigured body, sprawled across the pavement in a pool of blood. I never guessed the cure for my insomnia would be a twenty-six-year-old pastry chef from Nashville.

Claudia and I met six months ago on ‘Insomniacs-Meet,’ an app for people who can’t sleep at night to talk about everything under the sun. At first, I struggled to find anyone interesting to talk to, but Claudia and I made a genuine connection. We talked about our favorite films, and where we would go if we had all the time and money in the world. We even bonded over both of our dads being dead and the use of dark humor to cope. It was perfect. The only problem was that I used a photo of me from twenty years ago as my profile picture, when I had a thick mane of dark hair and the abs of a God. So, when Claudia asked me to meet her a month ago, I freaked out.

Initially I was stoked. I was finally going to meet the woman who I’d fallen for. The woman who sparked something in me I previously believed had died and gave me hope for the future. But just as quickly as my anticipation to see her built up, the realization set in. Claudia was expecting someone completely different than me. 

We had made a plan. I was to fly to Nashville, and she’d meet me at the airport. She’d take me to her favorite barbecue spot because as she always reminded me, New York barbecue wasn’t real barbecue. Then we would spend a weekend together. I tried to convince myself that things would go well. Claudia wasn’t a shallow woman, like Nadine. She wouldn’t judge me for my body or cheat on me with some younger guy at her job. I convinced myself so well that I made it all the way to Nashville. When I saw the young blonde woman standing in the airport, I didn’t even need to read the “Welcome to Nashville Pete” sign in her hands to know it was Claudia. She was just as beautiful as the photos on her profile - the ones I’d lamented over for the past six months. When we made eye contact from across the room, my heart started racing. The anticipation built up inside of me and for a moment, I imagined her dropping the cardboard sign and running straight towards me, jumping in my arms and kissing me as if we were the only two that mattered in the busy airport. But moments later, Claudia broke eye contact and turned around, searching the crowd for someone - searching the crowd for me.

She didn’t even recognize me.

So instead of being honest with her, I fled the scene like a scared little boy.

Now Claudia’s gone, probably for good, and I’m back to getting an hour of sleep a night, if I’m lucky.

“Showtime!” Frank, the building owner of the studio I’ve rented for the night calls, walking up behind me. I slide my phone in my pocket as he slaps his hands on my shoulders and squeezes them. “You ready Picasso?”

“Picasso was a painter,” I mumble, staring at my bleak reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall as Frank props open the double-sided doors. The sun let in by the entrance only enhances the dark circles around my eyes and it’s only now that I realize just how ill-fitting my late father’s old suit is on me.

“Same difference,” Frank says. “I’ll be in the back if you need me. Do me a favor and pass these out.” He hands me a stack of business cards before leaving me standing in the empty room, surrounded by the photographs covering the walls and the measly table of crackers and cheese I managed to put together, thanks to the cafeteria workers at the school where I teach history. 

Today I’m holding my first photography exhibition. Despite the fact that I got my teaching degree because my parents said I wouldn’t go anywhere taking pictures of random shit, the hobby never left me. Now here I am at forty-two trying to make it because a woman I met on a dating app inspired me by quitting medical school to follow her dreams of baking cakes for a living. Claudia’s bravery made me believe that I too could take action and follow my dreams - only for me, it might actually be too late.

After twenty minutes of nervously pacing around the room and contemplating packing all the framed photographs and the cheap display of crackers into my old Honda, a slither of hope walks through the door in the form of an elderly couple, hand in hand, slowly shuffling their feet. 

“Welcome!” I say, walking over from across the room. “Thank you for coming. We have refreshments on the table to your left and all of the photographs displayed are available for purchase. Let me know if you have any questions!” The woman smiles as the man asks her to repeat what I’ve said. She fills him in as they start their lap around the room, periodically stopping to examine the photographs. Shortly after, other patrons start to trickle in and before I know it, a couple dozen people are spread across the studio, admiring the work on the walls - admiring my work.

The more people circling the room, the more confident I become. I even make a sale on a photo of an acoustic guitar in a field of dandelions that I took last year as an ode to Jake, who was a musician. In fact, the first time we met he was playing with his band on campus. I let him know I thought his guitar solo was great and the rest was history. The more we got to know each other, the more he became more of a brother than a friend. I’m not upset that I’ve only made one sale tonight, because I think it’s just Jake’s way of letting me know that he’s still with me, and that is priceless.

The euphoria I feel gliding through the crowd mingling with art lovers who see the artistic vision within my photographs is unmatched. I’m so elated, I don’t even know who I am right now. Talking to strangers and making corny jokes and expressing feelings I usually keep buried deep within my soul. I keep chasing the feeling until I notice a woman with red hair and a buzz cut admiring one of my favorite pieces, a close up shot of a doe standing in the middle of the street, quite literally stuck in headlights. I make my way over to the woman and ask her if she likes the piece.

“It’s beautiful,” she says in a soft, familiar southern accent. “Did you take it?” She looks up at me, seemingly in slow motion, with big blue eyes and the brightest smile I have ever seen. My heart stops beating because I would know those eyes and that smile anywhere. Even with a new haircut and a new nose piercing I haven’t seen in any of her photos, I recognize her. 

Claudia.

I clear my throat and try to hide the shock on my face when I realize she’s staring at me, waiting for a response. My lips part but I don’t know what to say. Do I confess that it’s me, the man who she spent months on the phone with at nights talking about her dreams, fears and desires? Do I just start profusely apologizing for standing her up?

“Yes,” I finally blurt out. I clear my throat again and break the intensity of our eye contact. “Yes, it’s my exhibition. I took all these photos.”

“Marvelous.” She turns back to the photo as I slyly admire her side profile. 

How could this be? What is she doing here? Is she with someone else? Does she know it’s me? No, she couldn’t. If she didn’t recognize me at the airport that day, she surely won’t recognize me now with my stress eye bags and new gray hairs separating me even further from the picture of twenty-year-old me on my ‘Insomniacs-Meet’ profile. My heart skips a beat when she looks up at me again with those beautiful eyes and asks “how did you manage to get this much detail from afar? What kind of camera do you use?”

“Oh, I - it’s nothing fancy, really. It was a close up shot. I was driving home from work one day and saw her crossing the street and I stopped to let her go. She stared right into my eyes, and it was like…it was like she was calling to me. I got out of the car to grab a picture and surprisingly, she held still.”

“Wow.” Claudia leans closer to the framed photograph, pointing out the texture and the vibrant colors I was able to capture. “They don’t usually let people get so close. You must have a great aura.” Her compliment sends a warm feeling throughout my body.

By now, the event is coming to an end and patrons are trickling out. I keep expecting Claudia to get sick of talking to me about color gradients and photo angles, but she doesn’t. The spark in her eye doesn’t even dim for one moment. 

“Do you want it?” I ask.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I - well, not this one, but I have another framed copy in my car if you want to…or maybe that’s weird. I…you probably don’t want to follow a random guy to his car at night.” Claudia laughs again.

“It’s okay.” She nods her head towards the door, and we start towards the exit. “I trust you.” A small smile forms on my lips. Is it possible that subconsciously Claudia knows it’s me? Maybe she has an inkling, and that’s why she feels so comfortable. Maybe I should just tell her. Yes, the mood is right. We hit it off just as well as over the phone. And I don’t know what she’s doing in New York or how long she’ll be here, but I would love a chance to see her again - without the barrier of secrecy that currently rests between us.

As Claudia stands a few feet away, I rummage through the trunk of my car searching through the photographs. I run through scenarios of possible dates in my head. We could take a stroll through central park and then have a sunset picnic. Or we could go see a movie. Claudia loves foreign films and there’s a French one showing at the cinema by my apartment complex this week. “Les Lamoureux” I believe it was called. Yes, she’ll like that.

I finally find the right photograph and hold it up for her to see with a “ta-da!” Claudia squeals and takes the photo, admiring it once again.

“How much do I owe you?” she asks.

“It’s on the house.”

“What? Are you serious?” I nod. "Thank you!" Claudia smiles and throws her free arm around me. My head buried into her neck, I get a stronger sense of her strawberry and vanilla scented perfume. I return the hug, squeezing her closer to me until she gently releases.

“Sorry,” she says. “I hope you didn’t mind that.”

“Not at all.”

“I come from a family of huggers, and to be honest, you remind me of someone I used to be close to.” My throat slowly begins to close in on itself. This is it. She knows exactly who I am and she’s going to confront me about lying about my age and my looks and standing her up at the airport. Okay, okay. I'll play it cool. I’ll let her do the talking and hopefully she’ll give me a chance to explain myself and then this will all be a funny story we tell at our wedding.

“Oh?”

Yeah,” she says, looking down. “My dad, he uh…he passed away when I was little and…I don’t know. You just remind me of him, a lot.” The rapid beating of my heart slows to a dull rhythm and the playful butterflies in my stomach turn to heavy rocks. Claudia doesn’t recognize me. And even worse than that, she looks at me as a father. “Oh God. I hope I haven’t brought the mood down talking about my dead daddy. I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” I try to neutralize the disappointment on my face but by the look on Claudia’s, I can tell I’m doing a shit job of it. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. About your…dad.” Claudia nods and looks off to the side.

“Okay well um…It was nice meeting you…” She waits for me to fill in the blank. I freeze for a moment. I could tell her my name is Pete and she would probably think it was just a silly coincidence that I share a name with the young man who stood her up a month ago. Or she could put two and two together and realize the old creep in front of her is the same Pete that hurt her once before. I decide to play it safe and give her the first name that pops into my head.

“Jake.” 

Claudia nods and thanks me again for the photo before walking off into the distance.