Head of the Class

The problem with Charlie was he wasn't charming. He wasn't funny. He wasn't audacious. He was just Charlie. Unpretentious and immoveable.

He didn't need to be charming; there was nothing fake about him. He was what he was and that's all that he was. He made no apologies. I'm such a sucker for a man who offers no excuses.

Funny? No, he wasn't clever enough to be funny. He was funny in ways that were purely accidental. Like the time he poured his hot chocolate on his shoes when someone asked him for the time. Angelically oblivious. It was the most attractive thing about him.

There was nothing bold about Charlie, either. He was someone who could easily fade into the background. We were a lot alike. We both preferred the background, the wallpaper, the backseat of Life. Like myself, Charlie was bereft of the courage it takes for audacity to settle into the cracks. He was far too timid to be brave. He was simply Charlie. Take him or leave him.

That's what makes it such a loss.

When he told me it was over--when he was done with this--I knew there was to be no discussion; it was simply over. Charlie was not dramatic enough to draw it out into a fight or a barter. He was done and I had no choice but to move on. And intellectually I understood that at the time. When our eyes met, he let his linger--which surprised me, he hardly ever lingered anywhere--but he had no compulsion to pull back when he saw my tears, which came despite my resolve to never let anyone hurt me again. And in those lingering eyes I saw nothing that resembled remorse.

Or even pity.

Just a simple decision made by a simple man for a simple reason I simply didn't understand.

But now, I'm past not understanding. I've passed confusion and moved all the way to the head of the class--where anger sits. Anger's always in the front. Facing the teacher head on. Daring. Taunting. Biding his time.

What the heck, Charlie? Why couldn't you be happy with me? You acted happy. You never sulked or pouted or whined. Why'd you have to take your toys and go home?

I wasted some of my best stuff on you. And you just took it. Shoved it in your back pocket like it was a grocery list. All those vulnerabilities--I handed them to you on a silver platter and you took them; put the platter in a cupboard and slammed it shut. Hard enough it shattered some of your crystal wine glasses--you know, the ones Sara gave you.

And I'm glad.