“We are out of almond milk,” she said.
It was getting dark outside, and the sun was winking, and Lana Del Ray was singing through the Sonos stereo.
“Let me get some,” I said and left my desk and all I wanted was to be able to get that almond milk for her. I knew what would happen if I didn’t. And I didn’t want to risk it.
“I will come with you,” she said.
So we went outside, and the streetlights were waiting to see if we would talk to each other, but we didn’t, and all I could think about was the last time there was no almond milk in the fridge. Fucking shit, that almond milk, I tell you. Can’t it be Oatmeal milk or Soy milk? Why does it always have to be almond milk?
As we approached the store, she touched my hand and said, “I don’t trust you.”
Her eyes were dry, and her lips were rigid, and I could tell that she really did not trust me.
“Why?” I asked, but I knew the answer; it was because of the fucking almond milk.
“You know what happens when we are out of Almond Milk,” she said, “and we talked about it, we talked about it so many times, there has to be Almond Milk in the fridge, and if there isn’t, if there isn’t, well, you know what happens, and that is why I can’t trust you.”
If she could, she would cry, but she wasted all her tears on her past lovers.
“Listen,” I told her, “fuck the Almond Milk for a second. I love you. I really do. I love you even if you turn into a beast when you have no Almond Milk. I love you anyway. Don’t be afraid”.
She laughed a wicked laugh and grabbed both of my arms, shaking me.
“You don’t understand shit, do you?” she said, “It doesn’t matter if you love me or not. It only matters if you can listen to me, not hear me, but listen to me, to what I need, and if you really listened, then there would be Almond Milk in the fridge.”
I remember the first time I kissed her. The moment after that first kiss was a scary one, as I knew that she would be able to do whatever she wanted with me as long as the kissing continued to feel like that, as long as the warmth of her body warmed my body and the soundtrack we were playing was louder than the tunes of my ex-lovers. That was before I learned about the Almond Milk thing and before she learned that I couldn’t use chopsticks.
I love the Japanese cuisine. I love it as much as David Lynch loves his meditation sessions. Because of that, I grab the sushi with my fingers and tap it into the Soy sauce, like someone eats Hummus with Pita bread. Vulgar, I know, but not shameful, no falsehood, just truth, I promise you. But she didn’t see it like that. She couldn’t. So she tried, with everything, to teach me to eat with chopsticks. Technically, it worked because she is a fabulous teacher. But, even if technically I was eating correctly with the chopsticks, I couldn’t use the chopsticks; instead, they were using me. All I wanted was to feel the texture of the Sushi rice in my hands, tasting the remains of the Soy sauce from my fingers.
We bought five bottles of Almond Milk and went back to our apartment. When we got home, she quickly served herself a glass and placed the rest of the Almond Milk bottles in the fridge. She was calm now, lightly smiling at me. We made love and listened to music. Afterward, as we were holding each other in bed, she said she could see my scars, all of them, and that if I really wanted, there was a machine that could heal all of my scars, that a lot of people are using this machine, and that she even used that machine, and because of that, mainly because of that, she doesn’t have any scares anymore. She is all clean and soft. Like a baby.
“Wait, but what about the Almond Milk thing?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?” she asked and moved a bit away from me.
“Isn’t that a scar?” I asked.
She jumped out of bed, yelling, telling me that this is exactly why I can’t be trusted. I am so filled with scars that I can’t even see the scars. I can’t even see how I am hurting her.
She went to smoke on the balcony.
Several minutes later, I came after her, hugging her from behind as the smoke out of her mouth clouds the entire city.
“I am sorry; I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said.
“But you did, again. And you did that on purpose. And you know something?” she asked.
“What?” I asked.
“I can see that you hate eating with chopsticks; I can fucking see it! You hypocrite!” she said.
“Yes, I hate chopsticks,” I said, “but I love you and want you. Isn’t that the important thing?” I asked.
She looked at me and did not say a word. Then she threw away her cigarette, went inside, poured herself a glass of almond milk, and walked out of the house.
From the balcony, I could see her walking on the street with a glass of almond milk in her hand, waving to strangers with the other, walking as fast as she could, away from my scars.
There was nothing I could do. If only I could enjoy eating with chopsticks or make it look like I enjoy eating with chopsticks, then maybe, maybe, we could be together, love each other, and heal one another from all the scars. But I fucking hate chopsticks; I don’t know why, I just like to grab that Sushi with my hands.
