Worlds Apart

Azita
Blue

When presented with the scenario of a break-up, people have a very particular image that whizzes through their mind on instinct. It’s only natural. From either experience or whatever situations those cheesy romantic comedies in theaters present us with, we all have our individual stereotypes of what the typical break-up is like.

Yet, through those individual images, patterns emerge.

Some imagine the fresco portraying a man walking out on his girlfriend callously, her breaking down crying, and then eating, maybe, five gallons of ice cream or chocolates later on.

Some preconceived opinions don’t even give the man the benefit of breaking up with the woman face-to-face, instead e-mailing her a “Dear Jane” letter or breaking up over the phone.

There often isn’t a common enough image, however, of the woman initiating the break-up. And, when there is, the man is often portrayed as an asshole to begin with.

In most scenarios, the man is the villain in the break-up and the woman the victim.

So why do I feel like the villain?

I’ve been sitting on the chill thirteenth step of an empty stairwell, brightened with white walls and fluorescent lighting overhead, for the last forty minutes, pulling tissues out of my handbag and blowing my nose with the intensity of an irritated elephant trunk. My shoes are quite littered upon with spent tissues.

I touch my hand to my eyes, puffy and probably reddened from crying. Wincing my eyes in anguish, I throw my face forward into my hands again.

I don’t know whether to feel ridiculous or guilty or annoyed with myself.

I had broken up with him.

There’s absolutely no reason for me to get this upset, but I am. Aside from trying to shoot my nose off my face into the tissues, I had been clawing my fingers into my scalp trying to think.

Another sniffle and I drop another spent tissue to my feet, watching it tumble down the steps until it stops on the fourth step down.

This can’t exactly be good for the environment, considering how many tissues I’ve used and how many trees were chopped down to make them, but I can afford a few moments of selfish consumerist littering, right?

I stop sniffling, raise the back of my hand to wipe my sore eyes dry again, and look at my surroundings. It’s not exactly decorative. The walls are completely bare and everything‘s irritatingly white, aside from the small windows canvassing the pitch-black outer space dotted with the dancing lights of the stars like some cosmic portrait. I often wish I could float outside for just enough time to be in the presence of the awesome panorama that is the universe.

As I gaze into the vastness of space outside the window, I only realize how close my face has inched toward the window’s surface when my breath gently creates a mass of steamy condensation on the glass.

I jump a little on my spot when I hear a door slam shut at the top of the stairs behind me. Spinning my head as quickly as could potentially snap my neck, I look up and breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s just my friend Helen, her feet click-clacking echoingly down the stairs as she approaches me, a look of concern etching her features. She’s wearing her tap shoes and a large red overcoat with three buttons. I’d forgotten she had tap-dancing practice today.

Sitting on the same step as me, she extends her arms toward me and begins contorting her hands and fingers in an amazing sequence of translating her thoughts into bodily expressions, otherwise known as American Sign Language, since she can neither speak a word nor hear one.

We’ve been friends for the last four years we’ve been onboard this starship, or whatever the term is (The politics revolving around the exact term for this vehicle capable of intergalactic travel is quite confusing.).

Four years onboard the Babel, as our ship was so affectionately christened, and I still have trouble understanding Helen’s complicatedly rapid dactyl language.

Extending my arms toward her, I sign a simple sentence with a speed gained from plenty of practice with her. “Slow down!”

She smiles widely, showing off her brace-less teeth with the bedazzlement of a movie star. She’s certainly happy to have had her braces removed after so many years of oral suffering. Giggling, she signs back to me, “My apologies. I get carried away sometimes.”

I smile and sign in reply, “It’s okay. You just tend to talk too much without ever saying a word.”

Helen harmlessly sticks her tongue at me in response. I roll my eyes. Her childishness is a welcome relief at times.

Just as she begins to ask if I’m alright, I hold up my hand to stop her, smiling, and sign back to her, “Actually, I feel much better now. Thank you very much.” Then I lean toward her and embrace her in one pleasant hug.

She shoves me away and makes a playfully mock expression of disgust. Helen’s not the most huggable of people. She signs, “A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice, Azita.”

Together, we stand up and, slinging my handbag over my shoulder, I shake my head and sign, “No, it wouldn’t. You always manage to make me feel better without ever saying a word.” So I hug her again, tightly enough so she can’t escape.

Struggling in my arms and rolling her eyes, she pats my back with one hand and signs when I release her from my grip of death, “Yeah, yeah. I love you, too, dumbass.”

Still smiling, I tell her I need to get going and begin descending down the stairs. I halt partway down and quickly pluck my garbage from the steps. I stuff the tissues into my handbag and mentally berate myself for my inconsideration. I’ll throw them away later.

Once at the bottom of the flight, a plain white door hisses and slides open before me. I run through and it hisses again, shutting behind me.

The luminously white hallway I’m standing in curves ever so subtly and stretches on either side of me for several hectometers. Its walls bear only doors on the one side in front of me and a multitude of windows peering into space on the walls to my back, left or right of me.

Jumping up and down on the soles of my feet to warm up, I turn to my left and bolt. Some say jogging’s also a great way to shed your emotional woes and baggage.

So, with the anticipation of much hard-earned sweat and a major need to purchase some deodorant afterwards, I set off to put that saying to the test.

Though, not before placing a couple miniscule receivers in my ears mid-jog and, through the magic of Mental Selection technology, tuning in to the awesome jazz and blues music of Yoko Kanno and The Seatbelts.

Michael Bublé, take a hike!

Steve Conte’s the man for me!