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he leveled his charge at her. “it makes me feel like you don’t want to explore that aspect of our relationship together.”
“what aspect?” he spoke in a circuitous fashion that often made it difficult for her to know what he was referring to; he never accessed the subject directly, preferring to take a roundabout route.
“the creative aspect,” he clarified.
she didn’t think he was being fair. yes, the origin of their relationship was based on a bond they formed through creating music together and it eventually fell away, but that was years ago.
she wanted to hear his argument laid out before she offered her interpretation. “can you give me examples?”
“we don’t play music together anymore,” he began. “we don’t write together. you didn’t want to take french together. and i’m pretty sure you don’t want to dj together.”
“i never said that.”
“well, we haven’t discussed it in weeks and i assumed that meant you didn’t want to do it.”
she had a mixed relationship with djing, she'd told him this. on the one hand she loved discovering danceable tracks, spinning for others, and losing herself in the rapid rhythms. but on the other hand, she had burned out several times taking the hobby on; she had high standards for herself, she liked to be inventive, she didn’t want her passion to feel like a chore (which it had before). she hesitated to commit herself to their project if she couldn’t follow through months from now; she hated disappointing him. she had already disappointed him so much.
“sometimes,” she began, “i get the sense that you want me to do things with you because you don’t have the discipline to stick with them yourself.”
“how so?”
“the french, for instance. i’m sorry that i didn’t want to learn it, but i never had any interest in it. you took that on for you. and i understand that you reached a plateau in your learning where it would have been nice to speak the language with someone but i couldn’t do that for you,” she said. “i’m sorry if that’s why you stopped.”
“i started taking french because you were gone all the time with grad school,” he chipped. “and i stopped taking french because my mom got sick, and my brother was sick, and the pandemic happened, and i was working so hard to get us back home.” he seemed defensive as he enumerated his reasons for putting his interest back on the shelf.
as for the writing, she wanted to say to him, “look, i’ve been waiting for you to come back to me for years.” but she kept her mouth shut. it was true that neither one of them wrote daily while she was in grad school. however, the difference between them was that she tried to produce amidst the stress—he didn’t.
she missed the days where they spent hours writing in their respective offices, where they took walks afterward and discussed the developments they were making in their work. she missed the way they used to share their drafts with one another, offering encouragement and praise, constructive insight into the aspects they could not yet see with their own eyes. so often, she tried to motivate him to show up for his art. it took her a while to realize that it was not her responsibility.
“look,” he said. “i know you had to step away from the music. it was necessary, it was what allowed you to write.” he was being conciliatory, which she appreciated, but she didn’t understand why this was still such a sore spot between them and wanted to say so.
he claimed to have made peace with what happened when she gave up drumming; he’d said it was painful to let go of music but that he’d forgiven her. if that was the case, then why did he still use it as ammunition in their arguments years later? she’d suggested he play guitar still, as a secondary creative outlet to take pressure off the writing; he refused.
he told her it was because he didn’t want to play alone.
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