Since you've been sitting there staring at that chipped edge of the table, as if it might tell you something about your own history, have you actually thought about why you keep insisting that you remember the exact shade of blue of that old car in Marseille, even though the one you described last time was a much darker, almost bruised violet?
How can you even say that? I never mentioned a bruised violet. You're just trying to twist it because you were distracted when we actually talked about it. It was cobalt, a sharp, bright blue that caught the light when the sun hit the windshield. Honestly, Rafe, you have a habit of rewriting things just to win a point.
If you are so certain that it was a sharp, bright cobalt, then why, in the middle of that long, humid afternoon when we were sitting on the terrace at that café near the harbor, did you look me straight in the eye and say it was the color of a fading sky just before a storm?
You're grasping at straws. If I said it looked like a fading sky, it was because the light was changing, not because the car changed color. It’s still cobalt. You always do this, like you're certain there’s some grand consistency we're all supposed to follow. It’s exhausting, really. I think you're just remembering a different conversation entirely.
If it was the changing light that shifted the cobalt into that bruised, storm-tossed hue you're so adamant about, does that mean the car you're clutching onto with such ferocity is actually a ghost of something else entirely?
A ghost? That’s a bit dramatic, isn't it? You're turning a simple color into some heavy, existential crisis. I have a life to get back to, and you're stuck on the pigment of a car that was parked in a different city three years ago. It was cobalt. The light shifted, and it was still a blue car. Stop making it so complicated.
If you have such a life waiting for you, so much importance to return to, then why does your voice tremble just a little whenever we touch upon the fact that the driver of that cobalt car, the one you claim to know so vividly, was someone you haven't mentioned once since we sat down?
My voice doesn't tremble. You're just looking for a reaction because you can't find one anywhere else. I didn't mention him because he wasn't the point of the story. You're obsessed with the human element to distract from the fact that your memory of the colors is shifting every time we speak. It's a mess, Rafe. It's just a car.
If he was truly so insignificant that he didn't merit a single word of introduction, then why do you keep glancing at the door every time the wind catches the latch, as if you're expecting a man who was supposedly never part of the story to simply walk in and reclaim his cobalt car?
The latch is just old. It's a heavy door, and it makes a noise. You're projecting a whole drama onto a bit of hardware. If he walks in, he walks in. It wouldn't change the color of the paint, would it? You're so busy trying to play the detective that you're missing the actual silence in the room. It's getting a bit much.
If the noise of the latch is nothing more than a mechanical inevitability, then why, when you spoke of his possible arrival, did you suddenly forget to mention that the man you're so casually dismissing was wearing the silver ring you're currently twisting on your own finger?
You’re being ridiculous. I've had this ring since before we even went to France. It's a heavy thing, it's easy to fiddle with when the table is uneven. You're trying to link everything together to make a pattern where there isn't one. It's a cheap trick, Rafe. I didn't even realize I was wearing it until you pointed it out.
If you truly didn't realize the ring was on your finger, how can you be so certain that the person who gave it to you in that small, crowded shop in Marseille, where the scent of lavender was thick enough to taste, didn't have the same habit of letting you forget the things that actually matter?
How do you know it was a shop in Marseille? You're inventing these little vignettes to suit your mood. It was a jeweler on the Rue de la République, and it wasn't about lavender or anything else. It was just a thing we bought. You're trying to turn a piece of jewelry into a heavy, sentimental anchor to drag us both down.
If the Rue de la République was where you first felt the weight of that ring, then why, when you spoke of the jeweler so matter-of-factly, did you fail to mention that the man you were with was the only person you ever truly meant to give it to?
You're acting as if you know my intentions better than I do. How can you be so sure about what someone meant to do? It’s a ring, not a contract. You keep trying to weave these threads of destiny into everything, but it's just us, sitting here, arguing over nothing. You're just trying to make the moment feel more significant than it actually was.
If the moment was truly as hollow as you claim, or if the intentions behind the ring were so trivial that they didn't warrant a single mention of his name, then why do you look so desperately as if you are trying to convince yourself, rather than me, that the man who placed it there is someone you have actually managed to leave behind?
You think I'm trying to convince myself? That's a hell of an assumption. You're sitting there, dissecting my expressions as if you've got some master key to my head. I'm not trying to leave anyone behind; you're just trying to make sure he stays present in the room. It's much easier for you to fight a ghost than to just sit here with me.
If it is so much easier for me to fight a ghost, then why do you act as though his presence is the only thing keeping you from vanishing entirely into that silence you keep mentioning?
You think his presence is what keeps me grounded? That's a strange way to look at it. You're acting as if I'm an empty shell without him to fill the space. It's not him who keeps the silence away, it's the noise you're making. You're so desperate to make this a tragedy that you've forgotten we're just two people talking.
If we are merely two people talking, without any of the weight or the histories you so carefully guard, then why do you look as though you are holding your breath, waiting for the moment when the truth of that cobalt car finally catches up to the life you're pretending to have?
Who says I'm pretending to have a life? My job at the archives, the apartment with the creaky floorboards—those aren't pretenses. You're obsessed with this idea that there's some hidden truth waiting to crash into us. It’s just a car, Rafe. You keep acting like the truth is a tidal wave, but all you're doing is making the air heavy.
If the archives and the creaky floorboards are truly as solid and unchanging as you suggest, then why, whenever the conversation shifts toward the pier where you last saw him, do you suddenly look as though you are a stranger to the very life you're so desperately trying to prove you still own?
How do you even know about the pier? We haven't even mentioned the docks or the sea since we sat down. You’re pulling names of places out of the air to make your little theories work. It’s like you’re building a house out of nothing just to see if it’ll stand. I haven't left anything behind; you're just trying to push me out of my own skin.
If the pier is just some place you've plucked from the ether, a mere construction of my own making to suit a theory, then why did you just flinch as if the salt spray of that specific coastline had suddenly hit your face?
A flinch? You're watching my face like it's a cinema screen. It was just the draft from the door, or maybe just a sudden thought. You're trying so hard to find a physical reaction to prove your invisible maps are correct. It's almost impressive, how much you want me to be a character in your own little drama. It isn't about the salt spray.
If the salt spray is nothing to you, and if you aren't merely a character in a story you're trying to write as we go, then why, when you said it wasn't about the salt, did you look toward the window as if you were watching the waves crash against the very docks you claim not to have mentioned?
It’s a window, Rafe. There are trees outside, maybe some people walking by, but there aren't any waves. You’re looking for a coastline in a place where there isn't even a sea. You've decided the setting is the docks, so now every movement is a wave. It’s exhausting, being the scenery for your constant, shifting-goalpost logic.