On Incompatibility

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He and I exist on a flat plane; let’s say a sheet of paper.

We’re at opposite edges, far enough that we could go our whole lives without touching.

I live on my edge lightly, a broke college student. I edit stories for a yoga magazine and it just about keeps me fed. I carry my student pass everywhere and walk as much as I can, even when it’s sweltering or torrential. My yearly indulgence is a membership at the British Council Library. My world is thin, but flexible.

At the far end of the paper, there’s him. He runs a business and throws dinner parties. His friends bring bottles of wine to play board games whose rules they know. His fridge is stocked. His knives are Japanese. It’s a weighty life, with everything measured.

We meet where everyone meets, the train station. We stand at the platform, trying not to make it obvious that we’re looking at each other. He flashes a smile first. Nice teeth.

We sit across, deftly ignoring each other until we both get off at the same platform and he asks me if I’d like to get a coffee. I tell him I don’t drink coffee, but I do drink whisky. Later that night on his balcony, after plenty of sex, he hands me a matchbox because plastic lighters are gauche.

If the paper stays flat, we never meet. But love introduces force; it folds the paper.

Our lives collapse into each other. I stay over at his house most nights. We drink his whisky and I make use of his kitchen and the knives. We make tuna melts. Khichdi and mango achaar. Whatever we fancy. I write my assignments on his Macbook and he reads the novels I bring him from the library. Our friends are polite enough.

We learn the shape of each others’ lives by bumping into the corners. One night I reach his house before he does and spend an hour on the staircase. He hands me a spare key as if it’s nothing. I make him a lotus origami box to keep his keys in. It sits on the coffee table.

He wants to go on a holiday because he’s burnt out from his career. Must be nice. We can’t agree on where to go. Everything is too expensive or too cheap. I cave because I like nice things. The resort has an infinity pool, but it’s too cold to use it. I tell him it’s a waste of money and he tells me it’s his money and he can waste it if he wants. I tell him that’s not how I was raised.

It takes a quiet pressure to keep the paper folded, like a thumb flattening the spine of a book. I don’t come home one night and he wants to know where I am. I would think it’s none of his business.

I stay over less and he calls me one night, very drunk. He spirals for an hour, I listen, and my friends throw me dirty looks. Later he tells me he’s an alcoholic, and that’s the way it’s always been. I’m surprised. He seems fine to me. He tells me that’s because I’m still in college and have no discernment. He’s probably right.

The next day we meet for a drink but first he has to pick up a suit. I’m in denim cutoffs and converse. His suit costs more than my college fees. I tell him that. To compensate, we go to a cramped dive bar that neither of us enjoys. We decide not to be together. At least for a little while.

But paper tends to fold back in on itself. We have dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant. I ask him to come to my play, the one I’ve been rehearsing for months now. He comes in his suit. For the first time it’s obvious to me that he doesn’t fit. Maybe he sees it too.

A friend asks me if I still love him. I think I do, though it’s not something we say to each other. The next time I’m in his house there’s a new couch. He calls it vegan leather, but really it’s just fake leather. We watch a 2000s romcom and laugh at the absurd plot. I’m careful to pick up the crumbs when we’re done eating. We have sex, but I can’t remember anything about it. On the way out, I leave the spare key in the lotus box. Maybe he notices, but he doesn’t say it.

We try to meet a few more times, but we’re frayed from folding. The last time we run into each other it’s at the train station; we’re back to coincidence. He’s with his friends and I’m with mine, at opposite ends of the platform again.

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