Expect What Happened to Happen Again
by Vrnq Synnott
It's a familiar outline, life mouthing I want more.
She sat on the sofa, her hands on her knees—but for whom. There were days such as this one where she felt like someone had zoomed in on her. This impression was not new. As if the landscape disappeared and she now filled the entire frame. Possibly this was the work of someone drawn to quietness, to the idea of silence. Considered from that angle, it made some sense but even so, it was an uncomfortable sensation.
One day, you sit on a couch with your hands on your knees, and the whole world seems to fade. Not like you are in love. It’s the knowledge sinking in that there is no net. You are unafraid—but—the notion of freefalling, time speeding up, and the mind, spinning; it all seems so [insert here].
I remember sitting, thinking I am not a symbol, I am not what you see when you look at me. Wanting the words to spill out effortlessly, get past my body. Time and time again, I've said this is not me. I have gathered and left pieces all over.
I give a name to crowds because, naturally, I am not there. Desire sits on the world, oppressive, protective. Maybe if I drive further away; shift my perspective, again. Or maybe, if I wait, the trees will turn green, the pavement will support my efforts to resist ranking pain.
Kneeling, sitting, standing—and backward.
Friends come to me naming the names of women the world is missing. I say I want to learn with my hand in my hair. It is too short for a ponytail.
In the next frame, I am walking into a thrift store. I am wary there isn't enough time. I have a systematic approach to shopping the sections; but what am I looking for exactly. I find girls and mothers and sisters and aunts organized like a rainbow. Perchance I am on to something.
My gender is language and every time I think about it I contemplate declaring it null.
If I could never make a phone call again, I would know bliss. I manage to get through conversations and stand with my arms on my sides. Chronic ache acts as an anchor; still, I ask for them to hold me.
We discuss who kept their job and who didn't. The willingness of the victim to stand as the accused. Intimacy is evidence. We downplay centuries over dinner. Oblivion is a framework, and we enjoy the potato salad.
Like a band on a t-shirt, this means something.
The next day, I am elated.
The next day, I withhold.
The next day, I am thirsty.
Twenty-four hours of consequences. I am relieved when the voicemail comes on.
So much more than a bright screen on a bed. I bend my knees, the only way to say please, please, please—my heart as big as this bed.
Two sides to every story. Forty-eight hours in a day.
My dreams find pockets of oxygen between work, tending to the needs of my body and nurturing a select few relationships.
The key is not to resent facts, as bitterness sucks up the air. Cities have much to say about the conflicting pattern of hope and outcome. Although experiences are worn like layers, they will not keep me warm.
*
I called my father he calls me back I called him back he calls me back. Weeks go by, then a conversation. Was this last conversation like the last one, and the one before that. I sense the opacity of time. Unmoved by the mystery, I close my eyes.
Spending my life at the surface of memories summons the image of tiptoeing around colours.
I could say the car is cold, but I get to sit in one. The streetlights travel down the dashboard. Motorcycles are semi-permanent fixtures by the side of the road. Longing feels like looking at a mural through fogged windows. Where do they store construction signs. The night is already falling, too soon. It's always almost November, shoulders are not ready.
We are all awaiting disaster in one form or another. It's a way of bonding. My childhood best friend winks at me through a thick glass—her version of events. My youth is soundproof, which explains why I cannot hear the laughter. I remember worrying. It's just a flash, then gone.
Similarly, an idea.
Similarly, abandonment.
Similarly, alive and—
*
Since they asked, I am here. I am here, since they asked. I attempt repeating the same sentence, over and over, until
I gain clarity.
Until I become more than a detail with a vague direction. The wind is rewriting my past; salt is not all that I swallowed. Wishes granted like anger. I shout out my location so my body remembers.
"If you love her, you are likely to kill her," said a man to another man. The other man nodded. Yes. And they moved on to discuss the weather.
I jot down what is rushed; my pulse, opposite a funeral. Injury is information; I am intent on not being overly exposed.
Conversely, how often am I glad and how many of my feelings are likewise sanitized.
The farm in my backyard is made of asphalt. I am almost sure I made my way through decades; I almost believe in something other than time-lapse. Almost feel welcome to occupy the space between two sips.
The body is quiet in proximity to a diary. I am grateful for negative space, the gift of nudity
and friendships that trade in expectations.
Across the page, I sink my teeth into an explanation, an attempt at stillness and the written word. I stare at a book cover for weeks, wondering when.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Vrnq Synnott is a queer writer and artist currently based in Tiohtià:ke (Montréal), on the traditional, unceded territory of the Kanien’kehá:ka people. Vrnq’s work explores identity expression, daily life, and intimacy. She lives with invisible disabilities and is interested in the relationships between gender, age, mental health, and power structures. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @thisisvrnq.