We Know Each Other Because We’re Different
If you hold it too long, you’ll start breathing the vapors.
I’m blunt when I speak, but she knew I didn’t think that way. She knew I thought differently, slowly; that I didn’t have enough time to say the words I wanted to say. So. I spoke bluntly. Short and Germanic. Before she died, our conversations would start out incredibly lopsided, and anybody else would have thought I was disinterested. She liked to talk. A lot, as if the words inside her were too hot. I’d say okay, and it was already off to the next thing. But eventually, if we talked long enough, I’d start talking longer and longer. And by the night was over, we’d have talked about everything from bubble tea to Franz Liszt. I’d be sweating. That was seven years ago.
The night before her death, she said something that I’ll never forget, something that I repeat to myself after accomplishing a big goal like graduation or attending a friend’s funeral: If you hold it too long, you’ll start breathing the vapors. The tears, Sam. You’ll start breathing the tears.
I didn’t notice I was breathing tears when I saw her again. Alive. In the flesh. There was no time for a reunion. I was on the subway. Early morning. She walked in…
