Modern Dating

A Scene

From a cops perspective.

He started to respond and then drew in a breath. The things he wanted to communicate could not be said. Sounds formed words, and words formed meaning—but meaning was only found by those who sought it. To those who did not, words were just sounds, sounds with no meaning beyond the tone changes.

That’s it, thought Will. We speak a different language, and she cannot understand the language of violence. And language is what separates people. Despite his deepest desire to make her understand, Will knew he did not speak her language when it came to this discussion. Or she did not speak his. He wanted to—and he imagined she probably wanted to hear. But desire does not matter, really. No sense forming a bunch of sounds she did not have the capacity to understand.

So he exhaled and nodded in silence. There was no point wasting precious energy on someone who could not understand. And no sense getting angry. It was not personal—it was sad.

The language of violence could only be learned in blood. It took blood to suddenly be able to see—your blood and others’. Those who had not shed blood in anger could only hear the sounds, not the words, not the meaning.

And once you paid the price to understand the language, there were other cascading effects. You did not just learn the language; you also had to live with the understanding of the molecules—how they were held together with such fragility. You could no longer see a person. You saw the molecules. Always the molecules.

Can you see her right now? he asked himself. You want to. You have seen others. Rarely, but you have done it. Why can you not you see her right now? She wants to be seen, doesn’t she? Don’t all people want to be seen?

Maybe, deep down. But we’re all scared to be seen. She’s scared to be seen, so she hides. Behind the cynicism and hurt. Behind the accusations that she doesn’t know are accusations. Behind the judgments. She won’t let you see her because she can’t let you hurt her. Does she know you would hurt her? Do you give off the aura of someone that hurts people? In speaking the language of violence, do people see you as violent?

But maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s not your pain that will not let you see her past the molecules. Maybe it’s not the violence at all but that she won’t let you see her. Does it matter which is true?

Right now you can’t speak her language and she can’t speak yours. Nothing wrong with either of you. If she spoke Russian would you get angry at her for not understanding? Would she get angry at you for not speaking? No. And that’s why it’s sad. Two people who want to hear the other’s words and cannot.

“Are you hearing me, Will? It feels like I’ve lost you.” Hearing his name brought him back. You like that, he thought. It feels nice to hear your name. When someone says your name, it feels like they hear your words.

“I’m listening,” Will lied. You have to find someone before you lose them, he thought as he pulled himself up in his chair. He had unconsciously slouched away from her.

“Am I boring you?” She was shifting uncomfortably in her own chair. She’s feeling self-conscious, thought Will.

“No, I’m just thinking about the molecules.” As he said it, he knew it sounded crazy.

“Molecules?” She was looking at him quizzically now.

“It’s hard to explain and I know it sounds crazy, but it’s hard to hear you make judgments about cops without understanding violence.”

“What does that have to do with molecules?”

“Violence tears apart the molecules of humans. If you’ve seen it, you understand. Humans are quite fragile, and their molecules break apart without much effort.”

She no longer looked quizzical. She looked resigned to the fact that she was talking to a crazy person.

“Is that so?” she said dryly and looked around.

Will felt uncomfortable and looked around as well. How nice would it be to just disappear and not have to say goodbye and just end this weirdness, he thought.

Now she picked up her phone and opened her Instagram, scrolling through the images. Will picked up his phone out of discomfort and habit as well. Look at us, he thought. This is quite the scene. You could paint this right now and call the painting Modern Dating. People would really get it. Put it in a museum so that generations from now they would remember what kind of strangeness had occurred during this time in history.

People would hopefully laugh at the madness of two people who desperately wanted to find connection, purposefully blocking any chance of it happening. Maybe it would seem as strange in the future as going to the Colosseum in Rome to watch people kill each other, he thought. You hope so, at least. You hope they all see the insanity of what is going on right now. There would be hope for humanity if they did.

Maybe it will be easier to understand the killing. Because the killing was done to your enemies. It was done intentionally and quickly. This silent death was slow and unintentional. That was worse. A thousand tiny stabs administered daily like medicine. Not unlike the bullfighting that seems so barbaric to you. At least the bullfighters were honest. They did not try to hide their intentions to kill their prey. Here, we hide our intentions. We hide them even from ourselves.

And are you so innocent in this cruel game of slow death you see? he asked himself. No, you are just as culpable. You want nothing to do with this girl anymore and you linger at the table out of courtesy. Such a gentleman. Stabbing her soul each time you respond without seeing her. Enforcing the pain that has become dating for her. So be kind and end this.

“Hey,” Will said and put his phone down.
“Let’s close out and call a spade a spade.”

“What do you mean?” She lowered her phone, but a glimmer of hope flashed across her face. The glimmer surprised Will, but he pushed past it without trying to understand.

“I don’t want to waste your time here. I think we’re two different people. We gave it a shot, and we’re just different.”

“Well, that didn’t take you long.” She pulled back as if offended. “Am I that repulsive? One date and you know this?”

Will had thought he was doing the honorable thing and was hoping for recognition. Instead, he was now the bad guy and he did not like that.

“Of course you weren’t. It just feels like we aren’t connecting and I think it’s best to just call it.”

“Well, that seems a bit premature, but if you feel that way then by all means.” She stood up and reached in her purse. Will stood up and interjected.

“I got this.” He reached for his wallet, but before he got it out, she had two twenty-dollar bills out and dropped them on the table.

“That should cover it,” she said as she turned and walked out.

---

“...there is always something left over which is impossible to communicate to others...there will always be something left which cannot be coaxed out of your brain and which will remain with you forever; you will die with it, without ever communicating to anyone what is perhaps the essence of your thought.”

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot