Until We Meet Again

44. five year olds

After my shift is over, I'm pleased with the progress I've made on my article. I'm nearly done with the draft, and I have a feeling that my editor won't hate it. I hope. I guess.

As I sit down on my couch, I do my daily routine of staring into people's windows like I'm an unannounced guest. I look away whenever something I shouldn't be seeing is occurring, but my eyes are always usually glued to the ones with families that are having dinner.

One familiar apartment has two twins living in it, green and yellow complements in the clothes and accessories that they wear. Probably around five year olds, probably having the time of their lives with playdates and cartoons and random shit. Everything was so bright and shiny at that age, no major worries about the world.

I was so blind once, but I think sometimes I prefer that peaceful ignorance over whatever it is I'm dealing with now. If I could turn the smoke in the air from factories and fires into low clouds and rainbows, I would be happier. As a journalist focused on the sad stuff of New York City, I would probably lose my job without anything worthy to report.

I could still be at peace though. . . I think.

I take the moment to call my mom, and she's clearly joyful as she responds, "Priscilla, finally! You remembered I exist?"

I frown, telling her, "I've been busy."

I last called her two days ago, I hate it. I'll send her short texts throughout the day just to keep her at peace that I'm alive and safe, but it's not the same. We both know that.

In my first year of college it's like I never went a single hour without calling her, but the times have changed I suppose. I wish they hadn't- a five year old's perspective would refuse to accept the changing days and months and years. I know now, at 22, I can't do anything against it.

I'll just sit on my couch everyday, watching new families move in and old ones be torn apart with changing apartments. New coats of paint and installments of furniture, but I think the heart of the place always remain. That reminds me to ask my mom how the renovations are going at home, and she says everything is great.

Ever since I began sending them money, things have gotten easier for them. They're now even taking on a small renovation at home with an updated kitchen. I like giving back to them, it's something a five year old me couldn't ever do. I never saw just how poorly built that stupid kitchen was, I was just so obsessed with the way my mom always used it to make the best dishes for me.

She asks me how work is going, I tell her that it's great. I might be imposing a five year old's ignorance on her, but I just don't want her to worry about me being scolded like a child by my boss.

She asks me if there's anything new with me, and I also refuse to tell her the truth about that. I think it's better that she doesn't hear about Delilah, it'll only stress her out. Besides, meeting up with Delilah was a one time thing.

It's not worth mentioning at all.

I tell her that nothing is new, and she seems okay with that response. We continue talking for a few more minutes before I receive a call from an unknown number, and I tell her that I'll call her back.

My phone anxiety used to be pretty bad, but I made a random promise to myself last year as like a new year's resolution to answer a call no matter what, and I've mostly followed through with that. When I answer, I wait for the person to speak up first but after it's an awkward moment of silence, I ask, "hello?"

"Pri-"

"I'm going to hang up," I say immediately.

It's Delilah. I don't have time for whatever it is that she wants to say.

"Can we talk?"

"I'm going to hang up," I repeat.

"Priscilla, things don't have to be like this. I want to be with you."

"Ok," is all I tell her.

She sighs loudly, and I can almost imagine her pleading face as she says, "I'll publish any book you write."

"Are you trying to bribe me? Besides, it's not like you have any clients."

I've never heard of her company, I would have known if there was some start-up. I've been doing research on and off about this writing process and what it takes. Publishing a book is a distant dream, she already knows that.

And she's trying to use that to get me back.

"I do. It turns out that people do want to work with a 'spoiled rich brat that pretends to be poor for sympathy.' I could publish your book, I'll do anything for you."

She's trying to be clever, attempting to take power in my days-old insult toward her. It's pathetic.

"I don't care! I don't want you to ever be the one publishing any of my books."

"Why not?"

"The fact that you even have to ask shows how self aware you are! If I were to ever let you publish my book, what would happen if you get mad at me? You have all the power in that situation, I will never allow that to happen."

"It was just a suggestion, if you don't want me to then I won't. I just want you to give me another chance."

"Another chance for what? For you to screw things up?"

"Don't act like you're so innocent in all of this," she tells me.

"This is what I'm talking about! We can't talk without getting into a fight."

"Priscilla, you never even give me a chance to talk to you! You automatically assume the worst from me."

"Because I've only ever seen the worst from you."

She stays silent, and I know I was too harsh for that. I shouldn't have said it, I can't even take it back.

She hangs up, and I'm left tightly gripping my phone and wondering if anyone with clear views into my apartment just witnessed that.

I always go on and on now about how much an adult I am, but I think I just exhibited the behavior of a five year old.