Solving old equation.
After a series of bad relationships, soured romances, fruitless pursuits, terrible let downs and a lot of ghosting –– we, a group of statisticians and poets decide to investigate ideas of monogamy, togetherness and other saccharine concepts we believe may have been enforced on our society.
We begin our investigation with ‘X’ and ‘Y’ who have been together for fifty three years now. Known to be occasionally crabby, this couple also displays a fascinating communication method where they speak to each other, without saying more than two words at the most.
Are they co-dependant? Are they still in love? We want to know.
“Has it been hard?” we ask Y. (X isn’t home)
Y looks at the carpet, an old maroon thing with a pattern of vases and flowers. He doesn’t respond immediately, a train passes by and we hear the whole of his tiny apartment rattle just a bit.
As a cup dances in its saucer, Y begins to talk.
So, Y met X several years ago and he liked a few things about her immediately like how X’s laughter chased the end of Y’s sentences, how she wanted his opinion on everything and how she’d wait for her hand to be held by his. In fact, this is what he liked the most; knowing that her fingers were waiting for the whole of his palm.
These days there are few greys between them along with one dodgy knee, an old cat, and two children who call on weekends. It’s hard to wake up now and even harder to fall asleep and by their bedside where the flowers used to be is a plastic box with brightly coloured pills that rattle each time a train passes by.
“Has anything changed between you two?” one impatient person (poet, obviously) asks in what sounds like a hopeful voice.
Y doesn’t pause, he nods and carries on.
So much has changed lately including X who rolls her eyes at the things Y says much more than she laughs and one day he found her looking outside the kitchen window feet apart, with her elbows cocked firmly on her hips. It scared him slightly this woman who looked like she’d always known what she was doing.
Besides she does this new thing now where she doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask, and takes his hand from him like it’s hers.
“You must hate that,” prompts someone whose pen waits to check a box titled dislikes. “Slightly controlling,” someone else whispers, before being shushed.
Y smiles at the whisperer and tells her that with X not much is like it used to be and there’s too much lost from before. But the thing is, he doesn’t mind this change, his hand being taken from him, without his permission. In fact it’s nice to held like that, like he’s always been known.
X has changed, so much, it’s true. But he’s never had trouble finding new bits of her to love.
When we leave, we are all slightly more miserable than before. Love or whatever, can do that sometimes.
