January 2015, Buenos Aires
He has eyes like the sky in winter. He smells like two hundred dollars’ worth of bath products you buy in a store decorated with dead leaves and a canoe. His legs are uncompromising, like trees or fortresses. He says words like aberrational and sublimate like other people say want to see a movie? and don’t forget the eggs. In the morning, he crawls up close while I’m sleeping, puts his mouth right up to my ear, and yells, “Mr. Pickles!”
I’m in Argentina with a stranger. He’s my boyfriend. I’m in Argentina with Two.
He thinks he made pesto last night, but he did not make pesto.
He runs three hours every morning. What he never says when he comes home panting and red-faced is that he stops to eat pastries and make friends along the way.
I don’t understand Two. I mean that as a statement of fact, not as commentary. I look at him across the table every night, searchingly. I study him as I’d study an optical illusion. In the optical illusion, I can only ever see the young woman, never the old woman. And those squares look like such different colors to me, even as I learn they’re the same. The vase I can kind of see, but I can’t hold it in my mind for more than a second or two before it morphs back into two silhouettes. How does one come to understand the person sitting across the table?
He asks the cab driver to take him to the cueva, which is Spanish slang only he knows for a place to exchange money at the street rate. He thinks I close the cab door too hard. He thinks it and says it and says it and says it. He changes his mind about the restaurant mid-stride. He asks to eat at the bar.
Wisps of gray hair are starting to curl up under his ears. He looks like a founding father. He says he looks like Graydon Carter. He doesn’t understand why the founding father thing is funnier.
He thinks my favorite phrase is “I don’t know what to tell you.” What he doesn’t realize is that he always says whatever he’s saying many times in a row.
He can’t believe I never read that book. He can’t believe I never ate that food. “Reeeally?” he asks.
He speaks English like it’s his second language to people for whom English is actually their second language. “The bar is called Rosario. Is near to here, no?” He either means to or doesn’t mean to. It’s one or the other.
He purses his lips when he doesn’t have anything nice to say. He speaks in a voice like suede when he does.
The thing about an optical illusion is that when you start out looking at it one way, it’s hard to ever see it any other way. You unfocus and refocus. You tilt your head. You look away and look back.
Our brains want to organize stimuli into meaningful information–at least, that’s what I read. That’s why we tend to keep seeing optical illusions the way we saw them initially. That’s what makes it hard.
It feels radical, dangerous even, to let go of our structures of seeing, to allow those data points to blur and then sharpen again into a new image, a fuller image. I think I see Two sometimes. I think I understand why Graydon Carter is funnier to him, why he can’t stand the sound of the cab door slamming shut, why he can never choose a restaurant. I think I see him, but I stop trying for one second, and he’s gone again.
He wants to go to a diner in Koreatown in the middle of the night. If I say no, he’ll make himself pasta e fagioli and smoke weed while I sleep.
He wants more salt, more spice, less light, more room, better wine, warmer days, longer nights. He wants more me, less me. He wants it all.
He’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen, as he runs out into the freezing-cold ocean and calls out for me.