Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“No, not at all. You know, given the circumstances…”

His nods. “Let me ask you a question,” he begins as his expression mimics one often worn by Aberdeen. “When you read a poem about love, do you instantly imagine Connie? I mean, even if the author describes a person bearing no physical resemblance to her?”

“Still?”

“As of yesterday.”

I think. I think for a while. She is that personification of the loved. The self I have constructed for her is an avatar that materializes as Juliet, as Werther's Lotte, as I-330, as pre-veil P.G.O.A.T. She's every heroine, every love-interest. Connie's identity has become almost meaningless over the years.

“I'll take that as a yes,” he says.

“Well, it was because I was in love with her.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I mean,” I stumble, “We had our squabbles, but, yes, I definitely loved her.”

“I'm sure you did, or at least you believed that you did.”

“Don't pull this type of bullshit with me, Jeff,” with a roll of my eyes.

“Am I wrong? It seems like you enjoyed her company occasionally, the ability to have sex without having to form an intimate connection with a stranger — to begin anew, so to speak.”

“This was not a protracted fuck-buddy situation.”

“That's not what I'm saying,” calmly. “It's more that the two of you are very similar in the sense that…well, how do I put this?” He takes a long drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out. “You don't jump into relationships, and I'm guessing she's the same way. You're both marathon runners, so to speak.”

“So it was a relationship of convenience, in other words?”

“Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole here. I'm just telling you what I see. To be blunt, my hope is that you get this bitch out of your life. She's terrible for you. She makes you miserable, and I'm pretty sure the two of you have hated each other for well over a year now.”

“Hate is a pretty strong word. I'll agree that the relationship did kind of become routine. You know, we were in love. It was a fact, like something you don't really have to think about. It wasn't contingent upon any feeling or emotion; it just was. Milton wrote Paradise Lost ; your hair is brown; we live in Bushwick. There's no need to reflect upon any of this. I never had to ask myself if it was true. It just was.”

“It was the status quo.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever think the two of you would get married?”

“Not especially. It, the relationship, just became so natural. I don't know how else I can put it. I feel like I didn't even like her the entire second year we were together. I don't really know, though. All of the problems just became so much more pronounced once she moved to Boston. There was just this constant animosity between us. Privately, I actually referred to this period as the Animosity — you know, as if it were its own special era.” He laughs uncomfortably. “It almost seems like we stayed together out of spite — both of us.”

“Love as a form of reciprocal torture,” he laughs.

“Proust?”

He nods. “Honestly, it seems like this may have been helpful. I understand that washing dishes was probably not the best epilogue to the relationship, but maybe now you can finally move on, and maybe even begin a relationship with this Vinati girl.”

“On the subject of women,” I begin, “What happened with you a Melissa?”

“Sometimes people just grow apart, man,” stoically. Thom Yorke mutters the first lines of “Kid A” in Jeff's room. I guess the previous silence was actually just an MP3 of very poor quality.

“But you don't seem to see any of your friends anymore.”

“They're her friends. All of the friends I've met in this city, with the exception of Melissa and her group, are either engaged or married. That's what happens when you get to be my age.” He's twenty-six. “People just grow up.”

“What about your friends from college? Don't any of them live in the city?”

“A few, but I wouldn't call them good friends by any means. Sure, I might meet up for a drink with some of them every once in a while, but, by and large, I don't talk to many of my college friends anymore. I don't really keep up with anyone from high school, either. So whom do I have left?” he asks himself. He then answers: “The people I've met here; and, as I've said, they're all fucking married or engaged. And, just like good intellectuals, they are all with dominating women who keep them on short leashes.” He rubs temples for a few moments. “Have you ever been around married people? Not just your parents and their friends, but people who are close to your own age? It's terrible. Everything is so saccharine. They have dinner parties and drink modest amounts of wine. They talk about bad television, acknowledge that it's bad, that it's utter garbage, and then proceed to talk about it for the next hour. And they always want to set you up with someone, too. And these women to whom you're introduced — my God! It's like these people are running kennels.”

“I didn't think that was happening as much as it used to,” after laughing a bit.

“What, that people push their ugly friends onto you like shitty hors d'oeuvres ?”

“No, not that.”

“Oh, that smart men continue to take on horribly bitchy women who make them miserable?” He pauses. “Not to say that smart women don't do the same thing. It's just more prominent with men. I guess a lot of smart people just have masochistic tendencies.”

“I see. Well, I was talking about marriage.”

“Oh. I guess that's just the people I've met. I don't know if it applies across the board.”

“Did you ever think that you and Melissa had a chance?”

“A part of me did, yes; but she had other ideas. She was young. It's not that she was all that young in age. It was more that she was socially bound to an age group of which she was not really a part.” I tilt my head. “I'm not saying that I have arrived at a higher emotional or ethical level than her — we are equals in those regards. Speaking of which, have you ever heard of Kohlberg's hierarchy of moral judgment?”

“No,” I respond.

“You may have come across it if you've read Habermas.”

“I never had the pleasure. I've heard plenty about him, but I haven't had the time to pick up anything he's written.” I point to the pack on the table. “Mind if I grab another one.”

“Sure. Well,” as the lighter makes its way across the table, “I guess it's exactly what it sounds like. Kohlberg breaks basic moral development into six stages. And it's different than Piaget, primarily because some people never make it to the sixth stage.” Okay . “Regardless, these stages, to me, also map emotional development to a certain degree, but that's another can of worms. I'll just say that I believe that Melissa and I fall into the same stage of moral development. Socially, however, we are very different. Our projects and aspirations are very different. She still needs to go out all of the time; she refuses to be content with a sedentary life because she equates stability with adulthood, and adulthood with death. Her parents really cemented this into her head because they both worked twelve and fourteen hours a day for pretty much the entire time she was growing up. In other words, she is a fully mature adult on just about every level, but she is terrified of having a career.” He pauses. “To her, it's not just the end of childhood, but the end of autonomy, and, ultimately, the end of life. I see that fear in you, too.”

“There certainly is some truth to that.”

“One could say it is the fruit born of the Me Generation.”

“You sound like me.”