Odette

It is on our fourth hour, hour since our talk, four hours since we left Russia, and four hours, still, of hurt and annoyance, and I don't know what other emotions are brewing inside of me.

Should I have left Russia?

Should I have just started a new life, a new career? Should I have just left with the painter?

No. Maybe in a lifetime where I did loathe Merante. Maybe in a distant alternate universe where anger took over me, stubborn me, unforgiving me, and unreasonable me just stopped listening to the world, to Merante, to ballet and just… moved on, just created a new life. Maybe it would an escape route for the coward me.

But right now, emotionally-battered Odette, stayed.

Because that's what we've written all over the place. We stay.

Merante and Odette. Merante and Odette.

"Since, we're all aboard the truth train, and this is a good chance to talk—oh, and heads up if I am ever to ignore you when we arrive in France, I actually might—I some things to say."

This hour is mine and he better listen. He looks at me.

"I'm really sad, Merante. And hurt. They may seem synonymous. They are synonymous. But the feelings are different. It feels different. Sad because I cannot believe what has happened to us. Hurt because it did happen to us. It was so hard, Merante, it made me feel inadequate. Like I wasn't enough? Maybe I didn't show enough then, but when you came back, it felt different with us—with you, like we've actually grown up and these feelings – oh God these feelings—it just crept inside and it was just there, waiting, and you were the trigger.

If you, upon arrival, would have proposed that day—I would have said yes.

If you wanted to show affection in all forms and sins—I would have, believe me.

Just the end of waiting, God, I was so happy, Merante. It's like passing a test you've studied really hard for not because of pure luck.

Yes, there countless times, especially when I had to appear in special plays, most especially my first solo performance, I had hoped, I prayed, that you would miraculously appear. But you didn't. I searched the crowd, I was looking for you, but you weren't there, all I found, at the end of the day, was your stupid letter written that you couldn't make it because of lack of fund due to reasons you did not explain. I didn't think of any reason, I was selfish. I thought you abandoned me right then and there, all the more when you were continuously absent from seeing what I loved doing most. I was so furious with you, Merante.

I wasn't okay. You'd think I'd be when since it was my first performance there could be the next because you believed that I had the talent to stay on stage for different generations to watch, but… no, Merante. No. The first was the most special because I wanted you, of all people, to be there. IT WAS A HUGE STEP IN MY CAREER! It took a while before I let it slide. And then the next and then the next followed by letters saying you were sorry. But… maybe you weren't really sorry because you were preoccupied seeing someone else's legs."

He flinched. And I cared a little.

"I'm sorry for throwing these awful, blunt remarks. These just come out because of rage. I never hated you so much, Merante. This might go back to normal. It may. Or not. I could head back to Russia upon arrival at France because I'm just about done with you."

"Are you?" Crack, his heart. "Going back? Is this what this travel is for? To talk about us, just working this out even if our endings are different?"

"I don't know, Merante. You tell me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's raising his voice and a few passengers sneak glances at us. "Did you just want closure and then done?"

"Maybe we've been over ever since, and cupid kicked us again until we were back to our senses."

"Cupid? Are you even hearing yourself right now?"

"Did you hear yourself then when you started inserting your cane in a different stage?"

Silence.

"I thought so. See, Merante? We could be just lying to ourselves thinking that it would always be you and I in the end because we don't have a choice, or we do have choices but we are our best shot."

Should I have left Russia?

Should I have just started a new life, a new career?

Should I have just left with the painter?

Why did you stay, Odette? Because Merante is the better option? Or because he is the most familiar option?

"My love."

"Don't call me that." This time, I'm already crying and Merante stays silent.

Clocking in on the fifth hour, this train ride is taking forever. I feel like I've been on this journey for three days. I'm tired. I'm done crying. I'm hungry. I know there are other things to talk about with Merante but it's just cutting me some slack at the moment.

Merante. Well, he's still there, flipping through a book he's read.

Did Michelle give him that book?

What else has Michelle given him asides herself?

"How far have you and Michelle gone?"

"This topic is making me uneasy, I don't want to argue."

"We're not arguing. We're settling."

"Yeah, and it means with you leaving."

"I don't think it's your job to tell me whether I should leave or not, the same with you not telling me about your affair with Michelle."

Silence.

"What was your question?"

"How far have you and Michelle gone?"

"Home run."

I almost wanted to laugh—sarcastically— but angry me is still the queen of all emotions right now. He must have taken a hint that his joke may not be as amusing as he thought.

"Sorry. Bad joke. I don't understand what you mean."

"Did you get her pregnant?"

"No."

"How would I know if you're lying?"

"Do you expect me to lie in the situation we are in?"

"Hell, I didn't expect you to lie to me even before."

"I wasn't lying. I was keeping it a secret."

"That's your main excuse? Not all the sappy crap you mentioned a while ago? Keeping it a secret?! You are unbelievable, Merante. I—"

"I'm sorry."

Because that's the only appropriate thing to say. He should be hanged. Executed. If the world were to accept sorry from the crimes committed, it would be chaos. He knows that what he just said was stupid. It was stupid, Merante. Very stupid. I thought I was furious before, now I'm almost as done with him.

"Truth. She didn't get pregnant. We were strict with the calendar method. It was almost always exact. Do you really want it in detail?"

"Not the sex, Merante, jeez."

"Sorry. What else do you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that question because I could start insulting you. You have to be more specific."

"Questions, Odette. Do you have questions?"

"No. Maybe later."

I stand up and he almost throws into a fit.

"Calm down, I'm just going to wash up."

His shoulders relax and he nods.

I almost want to just stay here, in the restroom, for the next 30 hours.

But I know that is not happening.

Maybe when I head back, I'll sleep. No, impossible. You can't sleep for 30 hours straight.

I'll deck in a different coach. No, right, not allowed.

Stay in the café? Hmm, it is an option but I'm not hungry yet.

I step out of the restroom. The only option. And then a crazy thought hits me and the feeling needs to be confronted.

He startles just as I sit down in front of him, face flushed.

"Yes?"

"Do you know how you drive me across the wall? In any occasion, anything, especially when I need you to be there and then you don't. You don't show up. You don't appear out of thin air. I don't see you in my room during that time. I. don't. See you in when I stepped out fromthatgoddamnbathroom." I may have said the last four words in a rush.

Silence.

"You wanted me to be in front of the bathroom when you're finished?"

Now, I sounded so childish and stupid.

"Forget it, it was just a thought that crossed my mind. From all the waiting I guess. It drove me mad."

He studies me, and I know Merante, he'd do it. The next time I'd head to the restroom, he'd be there when I need him to be. Because he's like that. A pleaser. If you'd ask him to jump 10 stories to prove how much he cares for you, the idiot just might do it.

"Do you want me to be there?"

I had tea delivered, because apparently you can do that in trains. I lower the cup.

"You know. After you're done with the restroom."

"No."

I drink my tea and I almost wanted to curse him… and then say yes. But, instead, I drink my tea.

This time, I had cookies delivered and a whole tray of pastries, because apparently you can do that in trains. I offer some to Merante which he takes politely. You could have offered him animal carcass to eat and he still would because Merante is like that.

And then, I order lunch, Merante says he doesn't want to eat because he is not up for it.

Okay.

And more tea.

And then I order wine.

Merante wants to protest but he's back at the book he's read during that ride to Russia.

Now, I need to head to the restroom.

And I do.

Because of that delicious wine I'm wishing Merante would kiss me. I want this fight to be over, and it will be, but there will be no forgetting. He's done it once. He could do it again, and I don't care if his brain then was half developed than it is today or whether he's more emotionally stable than before, what's done is done. He messed up.

I messed up afterwards.

It's there.

Written somewhere. In some book.

At the long-term memory section of the brain.

Remembered.

Because of that delicious wine, I'm half sober, half asleep. Still sober. Still functioning fine. I unlock the door, like a natural because I am half sober and half asleep. The floor is still straight. Not moving, asides the train, because it's obviously going to move—okay I'm talking nonstop. Stop. Stop.

"Are you okay?" He asks when I return.

"Yeah, very."

Still sad. Still hurt but I'm okay. These words. I don't say. Odette, you could be a pleaser too. A different kind. The Kind kind. The kind that'll make everyone love you.

I just remember lying on the couch and Merante looking at me before I fall asleep at 5 in the afternoon.