Playing Parsifal

Catharsis came quite unexpectedly. An innocent dinner conversation led to the breaking of a dam of feelings that I have long repressed and kept hidden from him. I am pretty sure he didn’t see it coming either. After all we were meeting for dinner as a way to wind down a busy and stressful day.

We had resumed the friendship that he and I had abandoned a while back. We had agreed to stop seeing each other until all the feelings had all but disappeared. It was safer that way—we needed to purge ourselves of a crazy attraction that had initially brought us together but has also become our undoing.

It tore me apart, being with him and being apart from him. It was a classic case of “can’t live with, can’t live without.” Though mutually agreed upon, there were a lot of things that had been left unsaid, and at the time, I didn’t know if I would even have the chance to do so.

Until last week, when over a dinner of grilled meats and hummus and baba ganoush, and a cheery banter I was suddenly struck with audacity to finally ask him, why he did what he did. To my defense, it wasn’t something I had sprung on him from out of the blue, our conversation topic were sort of touching on a delicate and touchy part of what had been our relationship.

“Where is this leading to?” he asked as I pried him. “I just want to understand,” I replied. But of course, he was already on the defensive. But I will not let it go. It was now or never.

Squirming in his seat, he tried to offer his side of things, though missing the point entirely. He was evasive, and then he turned the tables on me. It was my chance for closure, and I took it.

The words came out slow at first, painful, an ominous trickle of what would come out next. Then it came in torrents, and I had said almost everything that I had wanted to tell him all these years. My words silenced him, and I myself fell silent. It was all I could do to keep myself from crying. I never cried in front of him the whole time we were together, I wasn’t about to start now. Besides, the place was too public, and I wasn’t one to create a scene.

I opened a can of worms, that’s for sure. “Can we talk about something lighter?” he asked after a period of awkward quiet. “Sure,” I said. Try we did, but we couldn’t go back to that safe place again.

In the car, he asked if I was okay. I said yes. I asked him back. He said yes.

I highly doubt that we were.

As I pulled into the driveway of his hotel, the doorman came quickly to his side to open the door. He motioned to him to give him a few moments. We just sat there, not knowing what to say to the other. Finally he said, “I’ll be back in a few weeks.” I nodded. Then he said it again, “I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“Yeah, you just said that,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “because I will be back in a few weeks.”

“I’ll see you,” I finally had to say.

Then he drew close to kiss me, one on every cheek. I hugged him tight as he did so, and he held me. For a moment, nothing existed outside of that embrace, at least for me.

Funny is, he never offered any kind of explanation nor apologies for what happened to us. His face was contrite, as were his kisses. Still, I don’t know if I got through him, or whether his actions were a way to console me, or if his silence said everything he could not admit to me.

I don’t know how this will ultimately affect us, whether for good or bad. I don’t know if this will bring us closer, or break the tenuous ties of our friendship. I don’t know if it was right for me to resurrect what has already been laid to (un)rest, and if forgiveness will finally come for both of us.

But I did feel a sense of freedom. And that’s enough, at least for now.