I can’t remember how I met him, truthfully. My mind always knew of his presence, but not always his soul and perhaps that’s because the timing is so pertinent with him. Or perhaps it’s because big towns can somehow feel incredibly small when most names can be accompanied by the thought of a vague face. The problem with me is that the plethora of justifications can continue and you can feel as if I exhausted your options for any further judgment, but I want you to construct your own analysis. Always take what I say as you will.
I can’t remember the first time I heard his name, although I believe I should have as having the name Gray is rather unique. One of my many regrets is never asking where the name came from, what his mother or father was feeling when they looked at their baby and decided to name him after a somber color is beyond me. The only rational justification is that the color is their favorite or the name is in the family. More than likely the latter, however I have heard multiple interesting stories about the inspiration behind certain names.
I remember a good friend of mine in the third grade had the name of Christmas and was, of course, bullied by our peers. I enjoy Christmas so I enjoyed Christmas as well, but that did not stop me from crazily wondering how passionate her mother was about the holiday. I mean, she told me they kept a tree up in their house all year long and every time I attempted a playdate at her house she requested to come over instead. As a third grader with an active imagination, the only scene I could create was an image of an average suburban home on the outside, but a completely ornamented Christmas home on the inside. I asked, but she never told.
I remember Gray as confusion, yet a sorrowful secret. The gray shadow lurking in the back, sometimes seen, sometimes hidden. Phrases describe him more accurately than sentences, which hopefully tells you plenty more about him than I properly could. The first time my eyes fully had the chance to process him was in one of our local grocery stores around town, he was working as a cashier while I was the sixteen-year-old girl with puffy eyes and sniffling nostrils, buying ice cream, chocolate cake slices, and milk. Gray is a charmer, a pleaser, so of course he made some comment about my delicious, yet sad selection during checkout. I wish I could remember his words.
I can’t remember how we ended up sitting in his car the next day, casually chatting after school as if we had known each other forever. That’s the thing, we technically did, but a vague face to a special name never means much. The moments in the car mean everything, but most of the time spent with him feels that way too. All these moments are spent establishing and developing a connection, how could I not hold them to a high value? His old, frankly shitty Corolla was sloppily parked in his spot (which he told me was on account of potential tardiness), but was turned on so that the heat and his music could warm us up.
I can’t remember the songs he played, but I can remember that I enjoyed them as well. My thoughts were racing, though, wondering if he was playing songs he believed I would like or if he was simply playing the songs he liked. Either rationale had major implications in my mind and looking back I realize that all the time I remember my own thoughts and never the real, spoken words of a conservation. Gray used to tell me I never listen.
I always remember what happened next. The song that played was one that was both of our favorites, so naturally we had a whole concert in his small car. Our connection was intensifying rapidly, suddenly we went from two strangers talking to two individuals sharing a joyous moment. Or perhaps I’m thinking way too fucking deeply about this. The connection was obviously there, however, as the end of the song signaled the beginning of a kiss to him.
I remember that I loved kissing Gray. Fortunately, he loved kissing me too, as he pulled apart from me and softly smiled while saying, “I really like kissing you.” Hearing the words aloud made me realize that the night before this guy was seeing me at my worst buying ice cream and depressed as hell, now he was seeing me at my best while flirting and trying to make him want me. Hearing the words aloud made me realize that my best worked and perhaps my worst couldn’t.
I can’t remember what excuse I made to leave that old Corolla, but every second spent walking to my parking spot was spent in constant regret. Leaving felt right, considering we dropped our mere acquaintance status and transitioned into potential lovers within less than 24 hours. However, I wanted to stay and see what else could happen before those 24 hours ended. My words make my life, especially my past, seem remorseful, but that is not the reality. With small issues, I am indecisive and this leaves me stuck wondering which choice would have been better.
What do I do?
I wish I didn’t leave you.