Faceless

I’ve heard his name, millions of times, over and over, again and again. She said his name so many times it was burned into my brain. She talked about him so much, I knew everything about him. I knew what he looked like without ever seeing him. He was a ghost to me, but an angel to her.

Years went by and I saw him transform through her stories, her memories, her words over and over, again and again. He only existed to me through her. She was a two-way mirror between us. All I had were her words.

I tried to piece together a man through words. Every line was another hint. Every story was another feature defined, like squinting through a fishbowl or molding a statue out of clay. She played with his hair in the snow. Now I know he has brown hair. She has to stand on her tippy toes to kiss him. Now I know he’s tall.

I learn the most intimate details of a man I have never met through a woman he doesn’t give a second thought about. He’s a photographer. He likes cheesy movies. He’s spontaneous and adventurous and smart. I feel like I know him, I feel like he’s my friend, too. I feel like I’m the one who has spent all this time with him, not her. But he doesn’t even know my name.

I feel so many things without even knowing who he is. At first, I am excited for her. She has a couple of dates lined up, and each one is better than the last. I experience jealousy. The dates are going wonderful. They’re holding hands and telling each other secrets. Pure curiosity is next. Who is this man?

And when he breaks her heart, I feel only contempt.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I feel only contempt, but also a little bit of relief. I don’t know what I would do if she found happiness with this faceless man. I would be left behind.

She still talked about him long after they had parted. She exposed her fantasies to me. She revealed that she wished he would call her and give her a second chance. She bashes his new girlfriend. She cries in my lap. Over him. Over a man I know nothing about, only what she’s told me.

He keeps appearing in my life, over and over, again and again, without any warning. This flower reminds her of a picture he took. We’re watching Conan O’Brien, and she says this was his favorite show. This man is playing a role in my life and we’ve never even spoken to each other.

I want to meet him but I never voice my desires. How would I even ask? Hey, you know that guy that you’ve been obsessing over for two years and who broke your heart? Yeah? That guy? Well, I wanna meet him. Why?

Because I want to punch him in the gut.

Because I want to put a face to a name.

Because I want to make sure he’s real.

Because I want to see his pictures.

Because I want to have a conversation with him.

Because I want to ask him some questions of my own.

Because I want to confront the man you’ve been talking about for years.

Because I want –

The time finally comes but not when I expected it to. We need help on a project that deals with video and she jumps at the chance to involve him in her life. I shrug my shoulders. I tell her I don’t care. If he can help, then cool. I don’t know jackshit about cameras.

Inside I’m screaming, jumping up and down for joy, wailing at the top of my lungs. I get to meet this faceless fantasy! I get to meet the man she’s been talking about for years, the man who has shaped our lives without ever being present in them!

I’m nervous in the car. I’m rubbing my fingernails with my thumb. Index, middle, ring, pinky, index, middle, ring, pinky, index. We circle into the driveway.

The door opens.

A lot of people don’t believe in the saying, “Love at first sight.”

I do.

Because it’s happened to me.

This man looks better than any story she’s ever told. This man talks sweeter than any line she’s ever repeated. This man laughs harder than she’s ever tried to explain.

This man is more than words.

Now I’m sweating. Great, I’m going to meet this man with big wet circles under my arms.

He shakes my hand and says his name, the same name I’ve heard over and over, again and again. Except this time, it’s different. Now his name is everything.

She’s batting her eyelashes. He absorbs her affection and reflects it. I fall even harder.

We spend the night talking about “Family Guy” and Reno and buttered vs. unbuttered popcorn. The project is discussed for a full five minutes.

At the end of the night I don’t want to leave. I’m afraid he’ll disappear. I’m afraid he’ll turn into only words again.

A few days later and he isn’t words.

He is conversation.

He is pictures.

He is laughter.

He is philosophy.

He is in my arms.

A few days later and he is in my arms.

My faceless fantasy has turned into realized desire.

I don’t tell her anything.

She told me everything and I say nothing.

Now where there are words, there is silence. She was open to me and I have to be closed to her.

Every time she says his name, I don’t have to wonder who this man is. Every time she tells another story, I have to keep myself from telling my own. Every time she reminisces of his lips on hers, I actually get to feel them on mine hours later.

I should have listened to her words.

I should have listened to everything she told me about him. I should have scrutinized the way he broke her heart. I should have analyzed his deceptive nature through her tales.

Words will never betray me.

But he will.

And he did.

I feel like I’m watching the same movie over and over, again and again. Only the main character has been switched. Only now I have no one to tell my story to.

He’s real and he will never be only words again.

I wish he was only words.

 

 

About the Author

Bobbi Goldner is a twenty two year old self-proclaimed writer and nerd living in the armpit of Colorado. She has just graduated from the University of Northern Colorado this past May with a degree in Theatre Arts, but will be returning in the fall for a second bachelor’s degree in Journalism. She also likes mood rings and dinosaurs.

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Category: Personal