Here Comes The Sun

twenty-five

i m . s o r r y

october 1st
ottawa

    THE SECURITY GUARD STARED DOWN AT ME FROM ACROSS THE ROOM. He had taken me to a room in the House of Commons and didn't quite seem to like the idea of a young 'journalist' being the only journalist in the, by mister Hart Feingold himself assigned, pretended pressroom. By very limited I believed he meant to say not a single soul.

    I awkwardly altered my position in the old-school chair and felt the utterly tall and scarily broad man's eyes burn into every movement I performed. I was about to ask him if he really thought I, a five feet and five inched girl who didn't even dare to look the man in the eye, could possibly be planning on attacking a freaking security guard. Or maybe he thought I was going to steal something — whatever it was, he certainly didn't trust me in this situation.

    My hands were neatly folded into my lap, hiding my sweaty palms from the daylight peeking through the curtains. The more I focused on the physical signs of nervousness, the more nervous I got. It only took my brain a second to only analyze my fast-paced breathing cooperating with the powerful heartbeat up my throat, the overthinking in my head, while the rest around me slowly faded into nothing. Luckily, the awareness of someone closely watching me kept me out of sinking like an anchor into an ocean of thought about for example how I needed to sit when Hart would enter the room, or how I'd greet him, or . . . or . . . or . . .

    And there he was. He was there, standing in the door opening with his long, grey, fancy coat, dark blue scarf, neat pantalon, knitted sweater underneath. Dark curls slightly messy, but not too messy to give him the impression of a messy person, more like purposely messy. Eyes like honey in the fall sun. He took off his scarf and coat, causing the security guard to immediately reach for it, but, of course, Hart rejected his offer and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'll take it from here. Go have some coffee down the hall, David, it's been cold outside."

    I breathed out harder than usual.

    "Sir, are you-"

    "Sure. And how many times do I have to tell you, it's either Hart or pussy destroyer three hundred, alright?" Hart interrupted him. They both ended up laughing. Typically men, I thought.

    David left the room, leaving Hart and me to be alone together. His tall and more muscular than the last time I had seen him figure slowly walked towards me, seemingly coordinating his feet to land on one specific spot, or maybe he just walked so self-assured naturally. I had never really scanned his way of walking. How could such a walk never seek my attention? He hung his coat and scarf around the backrest of the chair across from me and sat down.

    "Miss Kaufman," his voice ever-so low, sending shivers down my spine, "would you like something to drink?"

    I shook my head. My throat felt like the Sahara, but no, I didn't want anything to drink.

    "How's the life of a journalist?" A grin appeared on his face as he comfortably leaned back in his chair.

    A golden, electrical wire grew out of his heart, I could feel it reach for me, but it hadn't gotten there yet. Yet.

    I was amazed by how casual he looked. He didn't feel like reminding me of how much time had passed since the last time I saw him, but somehow that didn't bother me, because us meeting again felt so naturally. It felt as if I kissed him yesterday. It felt as if he was so stubborn about not walking on crutches the day before yesterday. I didn't like how calm he was, especially when I compared it to my state of mind — I was a complete mess, whereas he was running for prime minister and looked like he had absolutely nothing to worry about. Did he think about me? He probably didn't even have the time with all that campaign keeping him busy.

    "You still here?"

    "What?" I asked.

    "You looked like you were somewhere else with that cute little head of yours," he chuckled. He was chuckling, just like he always did. He hadn't changed a bit, and it surprised me considering the pressure that must've been on him.

    "Listen," he leaned forwards, resting his elbows onto his knees, "I'm sorry, it was stupid of me to take you here. I just . . . I was a little confused."

    "Why is it stupid to take me here?"

    "Because . . ." he thought for a bit, avoiding my eyes.

    "I'm not asking much, Hart, all I ask of you is to at least let me know how you're doing once in a while. Is that too much?"

    "It's complicated, Nova," he sighed, "you wouldn't understand."

    "Because you're not letting me understand. I think it's funny how people always say that someone else wouldn't understand, because wouldn't they really? What makes them unable to not understand it? Lack of sympathy? Bullshit. It's an easy excuse to let your feeling allow to accumulate inside," I said.

    Something in his eyes changed, something in his smile changed. It was as if I hadn't seen him in years, and then all of the sudden had an encounter in the middle of the mall while we both looked completely different with children and all that, and he recognized me after looking at me for a minute. As if all over again, he saw the old me. He stood up and started walking past all windows.

    "Some people," he said, "are just so meant for each other that the universe doesn't want them to be together. The universe must be jealous or something, but anyway, so they are separated from each other, because of . . . work for example. Or they live in different cities. But the universe isn't just jealous, the universe also just wants the best for those people, because it knows that things can end up bad if they were together. Like, someone can get hurt. And they both need to accept it, need to live with a void in their hearts, because it's for the better. They'll get over it and find someone new, start a new family, grow old, because dear Nova, safety is so, so important."

    "I'm not scared of whatever's out there," I said.

    "But I am," he stopped walking and looked at me for a couple of seconds, "they killed my father, and they will kill you. I'd rather not see you for the rest of my life knowing that you're living a carefree, happy life somewhere away from me, than knowing that I'd never, ever, ever have the chance of bumping into you in a mall, because you're dead."

    I didn't know what to say.

    "I've been through hell, Nova. I know you've been thinking that I'm a heartless piece of shit, and that was exactly what I wanted, because you'd hate me and never think of me again. You'd never want to come back to such a dickhead like me. But here you are," he shook his head, exposing a slight smile, "I've been writing fucking letters to you. But I never sent them. I even was at a point where I wanted to write songs about you, like, I was ready to hit up Ed Sheehan to collab on a new love song. I thought I was fucking dreaming when I saw you standing here."

    "Is that why you're dating Barbara?"

    "What?"

    "I know you're dating Barbara, are you lying to me or are you using her to get over me?"

    "Who the hell is Barbara?" His brows were furrowed and he looked like he truly had no clue about what I was talking, "You mean that girl from the hospital? I haven't even spoken to her ever since I left the hospital! I don't understand, who told you this?"

    "Never mind." Maybe I was trusting him too much, but knowing that he felt the same way as I did was too good to be thinking about the negative things.

    "The press loves gossiping about me," he said, "don't believe a thing they say. I haven't really done any stupid shit back in the days, so they can't write about that, which forces them to write about bullshit now."

    "I'm sorry," I said.

    "You're sorry?" he laughed, where after he walked towards me, stood close to me and lightly moved his thumb over my cheek, "don't be sorry. I'm sorry."

    "What are you sorry for?"

    "For doing this." He pushed his lips against mine. The electrical golden wire was connected to my heart.