A Year Straight by Elena Azzoni Read Free Book Online

that malleable girl anymore but rather a confident, self-assured woman. But I had grown accustomed to the company of women, with whom I generally felt included and heard.
    We went for a hike, at which point I gave up entirely, walking alongside them without saying a word. Instead I took in the landscape, the river and trees that saw me. It was jarring how seamlessly I could resort to that dark silent place inside, like it had been awaiting my return all along. By evening I was on the verge of tears.

    The house we were staying in had grown cold, the sun no longer casting streams of light across the floor. So we ended up right back where we’d started: in front of another fire. Only it wasn’t so hot. We sat in silence for a while, and I wanted more than anything to go home. The lawyer eventually placed another log on the pile and to my surprise scooped me onto his lap.
    â€œI’m sorry if I’ve been cold with you,” he said, “but I’m taking it slow because I’m not sure where I want this to go.” He fiddled with the fire poker. The log he had just put on was too long for him to close the glass fireplace door. We were sitting in front of an open flame. He grabbed the burning log with the fire prod and shoved it to the back of the pile. Sparks flew, and I knew instantly it was my split ends that had been singed, because the smell of burned hair is unmistakable. The too-big log balanced precariously on top of the ashes of the wood we’d already burned. He jammed the door a few times, and just as I was about to interject and suggest that brute force might not be the best approach, the door shattered into a thousand shards of glass.
    I had to hold back laughter, because in the little time I’d known him, one thing was crystal clear. He hated looking like a fool. Maybe all men do?
    â€œGo to bed,” he offered. “I’ll clean this up and wait for the fire to burn down.” On my way out of the room, I tossed him a pillow to sit on while he waited. I was trying my best to be
nice. But it missed his lap and bounced off his face, sending his glasses into the pile of ash. It was impossible to hold back laughter after that. I erupted into hysterics, finally releasing all the tension that had been building since we boarded the train. He didn’t laugh along.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said, in between cackles.
    â€œJust try to be a little more careful next time,” he replied condescendingly, retrieving his glasses and wiping off the lenses with his shirt. I felt like a kid being reprimanded. His tone sent me into even stronger muffled convulsions, so I ran into the bedroom and let the laughter loose into my pillow. And then I passed out happily, alone.
    In the morning the tension was palpable. We said goodbye to his friends and offered to pay for the broken door. I was dreading the talk we would inevitably have on the train, the one where we’d discuss our differences and decide to go our separate ways. But I was still thinking in girl mode, where, you know, you communicate. Upon boarding the train, he affectionately adjusted the tag on my shirt, rested his head on my shoulder, and drifted off to sleep. I was baffled. Did he really not realize something was terribly wrong between us? It dawned on me that having sex with guys and relating to them are two very different things. At Grand Central, I pulled him aside at the subway entrance.
    â€œThank you so much for this weekend, but I think we are too different to continue to...” And then the tears came.
I attempted to explain how I felt, but I was too emotional to form the words.
    â€œYou barely talked to me. I felt invisible. I just want to go home,” I said.
    He was dumbfounded and pulled me toward him.
    â€œI’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were having a bad time.”
    â€œThat’s the point,” I said in between sobs. “You didn’t even notice. It’s like