APRIL 2019
LOVE IS A WARM GUN
MILEVA ANASTASIADOU
LOVE IS A WARM GUN
MILEVA ANASTASIADOU
His name was Joey and he was my joy for a while, until he wasn’t. We had fun, the way young lovers do, when the world unfolds in all its terrifying, yet mesmerizing glory. He had been my weapon against reality, my revenge against sorrow, until he started talking about love. He was my joy and now he’s but a song by Concrete Blonde I listen to on the repeat, among other songs that remind me of him. For songs can be a substitute, a soothing one nonetheless. I kind of feel lucky to have met the original rhythm. Lucky to have a heartbeat to miss.
*
It’s half past love, he said, when I asked him the time. He then lowered his eyes and told me he loved me. He said it like that, plain and simple, not coded, not hiding the words in song lyrics or metaphors, which could be misinterpreted, laughed at and conveniently forgotten. I didn’t know how to answer so I smiled; mother taught me to smile politely when I’m not sure of what to say and I had found the advice useless for a long time, insisting I didn’t need ‘savoir-vivre’ to live my life, only I hadn’t imagined there’d be a time I wouldn’t know how to be true to myself. Manners are taught for situations like these, mom insisted; for cases you don’t know what being true to yourself means, not to replace authenticity.
While I remained silent, a frozen smile on my face, he said he hadn’t been sure whether I was a Simon and Garfunkel or a Violent Femmes song for a long time. I took that as a change of subject and asked what he meant. Oh come on, he said, the former is about sadness while the latter is about anger, only I’ve now realized they’re just shades of the same emotion. He said he could detect sorrow in my eyes, but I knew it wasn’t sorrow, not up until then, it was the downward lines at the edges which I’ve inherited from father. He was my Joey after all. My joy. And I hadn’t been happier before. I mentioned my dreams to make my point. Dreams in which the world came to an end and I tried to save what could be saved. For I didn’t need anything more in life, I said. I only wanted to protect what I had. Sure I had my ups and downs, like if I was a book, I’d be one page transgressive fiction, next page magical realism. Happy magical realism, I added, like unicorns and happy metaphors and all. But I was satisfied with what I had. I didn’t need love and all, I meant. Love would complicate things.
*
He wanted us to take a walk. We could visit the museum, he said, only I hate museums. I hate trapped history, I told him and he took my hand in his and kissed it. We then started kissing and did other stuff as well and I felt his heartbeat next to mine all the time and it was rhythmic, like proper heartbeats are and it reminded me of music, but not the usual kind, it was more like the kind you never want to end, the kind you want to play on the repeat all the time and I knew something went wrong, because I’m not usually that obsessed with music.
The moment I realized I was in love was a moment of enlightenment. Not in the usual, ecstatic, endorphin-related way. It was mostly a sad ‘eureka’ moment. I lay on his chest, catching my breath while the sound grew louder and louder. His heart was a time bomb about to burst. I instinctively pulled away. People tend to pull away from bombs. You don’t want a bomb to love you, or a knife, or a weapon of any kind. For one moment they love you, next thing they turn against you. Bombs are bound to hurt you. That’s what they do.
*
The sound didn’t go away when I lay on my side of the bed. It was my heartbeat I was listening to. I couldn’t pull away and avoid it this time. I couldn’t even close my ears and ignore it. We’re but time tombs about to explode, I thought, only I didn’t tell him.
Love is a warm gun, I said instead, paraphrasing the song. He nodded smiling, unaware of my fear. He thought I only avoided a proper answer to his previous love statement. People answer in songs, or quotes or poems, working in safe mode, when they don’t want to give away much. I petted him like he was a cat but soon I sneezed. I then remembered my allergy. I thought I heard him meow, yet he only handed me a smoke. He wasn’t a cat after all. I heard his brain buzzing, working overtime to make sense of my attitude. He was unable to make sense but didn’t seem willing to stop trying. So I wondered if he would soon reach the boiling temperature and felt the need to say something, to stop the frying of his brain, but couldn’t figure out the right words. I tried to read his mind for a while and I knew that was impossible but it seemed more possible at the moment than asking him directly if he could go on with me without a proper answer. So I tried harder to invade his thoughts but his mind was so noisy I couldn’t make sense. I was so desperate, I convinced myself I should stay focused on the task. And I knew I wouldn’t succeed, yet I kept thinking of all those silent brain areas I had heard of in class, which might not be that silent after all, only we’re not trained to use them. Like inverse evolution, the skill’s inscribed before the need arises, or perhaps the need is there, we need to fly for instance, the brain knows how badly we want it, so it gets prepared for the time we grow wings. Badly as I needed it at the moment, however urgent it seemed, I knew, though, I didn’t have the time to develop mind-reading skills, even if my theory was valid.
*
I was terrified but didn’t mean to make that face out loud, when he offered me the smoke. I was aware I’d spoil everything if I didn’t respond properly, if I didn’t tell him I loved him. Up until that moment, I had contained my emotions, keeping that smile on my face, wiping my nose with a handkerchief I’d grabbed from my purse, yet terror, inscribed in my wide open eyes, my reddening cheeks, my sealed lips, started invading my brain and I couldn’t sit still any more. A chain smoker isn’t supposed to do so. A heavy smoker enjoys lighting a cigarette, inhaling the smoke, however unhealthy the habit, despite being aware of the possible consequences. Finally, I took a deep breath, instead of smoking. He glazed over the room to avoid my eyes.
Love is a warm gun, I repeated, watching him light a cigarette, as if to pause time. I choked on the smoke, or his affection. For a moment I felt the air thicken, like he was stealing my oxygen, restricting my space. How do I know when warmth ends and the gun begins? I thought I talked aloud but I probably didn’t, although the words sounded loud in my head. He may have not heard though, for he was playing with the smoke, when I looked at him, not paying attention to me. Or he may have heard and chose to ignore me instead. I can’t be sure.
I asked the time again. He said he didn’t know whether it was too soon or too late. I nodded, yet I somehow knew; it was a quarter to the end. We spent some time kissing, yet his kisses didn’t change my mind at all. I then left and never looked back since then.
*
I still haven’t changed my mind, though I admit we did better together. I hadn’t been lonely before I met him, so it’s pretty strange I feel lonely now. I miss his heartbeat every once in a while. It’s like I have discovered the origin of music: the methadone of love. I play my favorite songs on the repeat, petting my cat, swallowing an antihistamine to save me from sneezing. Happiness is a warm gun, I sing along, in between smoking and coughing. I could have given up smoking, instead of him. Yet somehow, he felt more dangerous. Bombs are unpredictable. Smoking isn’t.
For our hearts are ticking time bombs. And when I explode, I don’t want to take anyone down with me.
And when he explodes, I’ll be safe and sound, somewhere far from danger, unaware of the explosion that might tear me apart.
*
It’s half past love, he said, when I asked him the time. He then lowered his eyes and told me he loved me. He said it like that, plain and simple, not coded, not hiding the words in song lyrics or metaphors, which could be misinterpreted, laughed at and conveniently forgotten. I didn’t know how to answer so I smiled; mother taught me to smile politely when I’m not sure of what to say and I had found the advice useless for a long time, insisting I didn’t need ‘savoir-vivre’ to live my life, only I hadn’t imagined there’d be a time I wouldn’t know how to be true to myself. Manners are taught for situations like these, mom insisted; for cases you don’t know what being true to yourself means, not to replace authenticity.
While I remained silent, a frozen smile on my face, he said he hadn’t been sure whether I was a Simon and Garfunkel or a Violent Femmes song for a long time. I took that as a change of subject and asked what he meant. Oh come on, he said, the former is about sadness while the latter is about anger, only I’ve now realized they’re just shades of the same emotion. He said he could detect sorrow in my eyes, but I knew it wasn’t sorrow, not up until then, it was the downward lines at the edges which I’ve inherited from father. He was my Joey after all. My joy. And I hadn’t been happier before. I mentioned my dreams to make my point. Dreams in which the world came to an end and I tried to save what could be saved. For I didn’t need anything more in life, I said. I only wanted to protect what I had. Sure I had my ups and downs, like if I was a book, I’d be one page transgressive fiction, next page magical realism. Happy magical realism, I added, like unicorns and happy metaphors and all. But I was satisfied with what I had. I didn’t need love and all, I meant. Love would complicate things.
*
He wanted us to take a walk. We could visit the museum, he said, only I hate museums. I hate trapped history, I told him and he took my hand in his and kissed it. We then started kissing and did other stuff as well and I felt his heartbeat next to mine all the time and it was rhythmic, like proper heartbeats are and it reminded me of music, but not the usual kind, it was more like the kind you never want to end, the kind you want to play on the repeat all the time and I knew something went wrong, because I’m not usually that obsessed with music.
The moment I realized I was in love was a moment of enlightenment. Not in the usual, ecstatic, endorphin-related way. It was mostly a sad ‘eureka’ moment. I lay on his chest, catching my breath while the sound grew louder and louder. His heart was a time bomb about to burst. I instinctively pulled away. People tend to pull away from bombs. You don’t want a bomb to love you, or a knife, or a weapon of any kind. For one moment they love you, next thing they turn against you. Bombs are bound to hurt you. That’s what they do.
*
The sound didn’t go away when I lay on my side of the bed. It was my heartbeat I was listening to. I couldn’t pull away and avoid it this time. I couldn’t even close my ears and ignore it. We’re but time tombs about to explode, I thought, only I didn’t tell him.
Love is a warm gun, I said instead, paraphrasing the song. He nodded smiling, unaware of my fear. He thought I only avoided a proper answer to his previous love statement. People answer in songs, or quotes or poems, working in safe mode, when they don’t want to give away much. I petted him like he was a cat but soon I sneezed. I then remembered my allergy. I thought I heard him meow, yet he only handed me a smoke. He wasn’t a cat after all. I heard his brain buzzing, working overtime to make sense of my attitude. He was unable to make sense but didn’t seem willing to stop trying. So I wondered if he would soon reach the boiling temperature and felt the need to say something, to stop the frying of his brain, but couldn’t figure out the right words. I tried to read his mind for a while and I knew that was impossible but it seemed more possible at the moment than asking him directly if he could go on with me without a proper answer. So I tried harder to invade his thoughts but his mind was so noisy I couldn’t make sense. I was so desperate, I convinced myself I should stay focused on the task. And I knew I wouldn’t succeed, yet I kept thinking of all those silent brain areas I had heard of in class, which might not be that silent after all, only we’re not trained to use them. Like inverse evolution, the skill’s inscribed before the need arises, or perhaps the need is there, we need to fly for instance, the brain knows how badly we want it, so it gets prepared for the time we grow wings. Badly as I needed it at the moment, however urgent it seemed, I knew, though, I didn’t have the time to develop mind-reading skills, even if my theory was valid.
*
I was terrified but didn’t mean to make that face out loud, when he offered me the smoke. I was aware I’d spoil everything if I didn’t respond properly, if I didn’t tell him I loved him. Up until that moment, I had contained my emotions, keeping that smile on my face, wiping my nose with a handkerchief I’d grabbed from my purse, yet terror, inscribed in my wide open eyes, my reddening cheeks, my sealed lips, started invading my brain and I couldn’t sit still any more. A chain smoker isn’t supposed to do so. A heavy smoker enjoys lighting a cigarette, inhaling the smoke, however unhealthy the habit, despite being aware of the possible consequences. Finally, I took a deep breath, instead of smoking. He glazed over the room to avoid my eyes.
Love is a warm gun, I repeated, watching him light a cigarette, as if to pause time. I choked on the smoke, or his affection. For a moment I felt the air thicken, like he was stealing my oxygen, restricting my space. How do I know when warmth ends and the gun begins? I thought I talked aloud but I probably didn’t, although the words sounded loud in my head. He may have not heard though, for he was playing with the smoke, when I looked at him, not paying attention to me. Or he may have heard and chose to ignore me instead. I can’t be sure.
I asked the time again. He said he didn’t know whether it was too soon or too late. I nodded, yet I somehow knew; it was a quarter to the end. We spent some time kissing, yet his kisses didn’t change my mind at all. I then left and never looked back since then.
*
I still haven’t changed my mind, though I admit we did better together. I hadn’t been lonely before I met him, so it’s pretty strange I feel lonely now. I miss his heartbeat every once in a while. It’s like I have discovered the origin of music: the methadone of love. I play my favorite songs on the repeat, petting my cat, swallowing an antihistamine to save me from sneezing. Happiness is a warm gun, I sing along, in between smoking and coughing. I could have given up smoking, instead of him. Yet somehow, he felt more dangerous. Bombs are unpredictable. Smoking isn’t.
For our hearts are ticking time bombs. And when I explode, I don’t want to take anyone down with me.
And when he explodes, I’ll be safe and sound, somewhere far from danger, unaware of the explosion that might tear me apart.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist. Her work can be found in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Gone Lawn, and others.