Tongue-Tied

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By Reese Menezes

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          The first time you spoke to me you said, “I really like your hair.”

          I didn’t say anything. I thought you were talking to someone else.

          The second time you spoke to me you said, “You have the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

          I didn’t say anything, but I did look at you as you looked at me. I looked around; trying to figure out who you were talking to until I realized no one else was around. I stared at your back as you kept walking. I remembered to breathe.

          The third time you spoke to me you said, “You’ve got great dimples.”

          I didn’t say anything, but not because I didn’t want to. I didn’t know what to say in time. You’d left already, having shot me a smile as you walked away. It took me a few seconds to get my mouth to say thank you. I was late, but next time I wouldn’t be.

          The fourth time you spoke to me you said, “You look really nice today.”

          I did say, “Thank you.”

          It was small, and shy, and embarrassing because my voice cracked halfway through, but you didn’t laugh. You stopped, like you were surprised, and you looked at me. You stared and started to say something, but then your phone rang and you jumped. So did I. You left, phone to your ear. I stayed sitting and huddled behind my laptop. I thought that was it.

          I was wrong.

          The fifth time you spoke to me you said, “Your freckles are really cute, especially the ones on your nose.”

          But this time was different. You stayed there and set your coffee down. You weren’t mid-walk. I suddenly forgot what I was supposed to say. My mind numbed and my ears rang and everything came down to you, standing there, the coffee on the table, and me. You waited, a patient smile and a curious tilt to your head.

          I struggled to say something, anything. There were words. I knew them. I knew them the last time you had spoken to me. Why couldn’t I remember them? It was just two words! What were they?

          You must have seen my struggle because your smile softened from patient to gentle, and I was afraid. I’d seen pity one too many times. When I struggled for words and people stopped taking me seriously. I knew what I meant, I wasn’t stupid. I waited to see the condescension, the pity, something that made me less than. It never came.

          Your smile stayed gentle long enough for my brain to supply me with something.

          “I like your backpack!”

          I almost kicked myself.

          The people at the tables around us other heard me. I’d said it too loud, and the snickering started. They stared; I curled up behind my laptop. I couldn’t deal with it. I don’t like it when people stare.

          I knew you would walk away.

          You didn’t.

          You turned and glared at them until they fell silent, uncomfortable. You plopped your backpack on the table and slid into the seat across from me. You wrapped a hand around your coffee and slid it closer to you.

          “What caught your interest?”

          Our first conversation was about the button on your backpack with a gray ribbon on a white background. I had seen it for months, we walked the same way every Tuesday and Thursday in the morning, but I had never been able to ask. Every chance slipped through my fingers thanks to the buzzing in my ears when I thought about having to talk fast enough to keep up.

          But you didn’t press. You waited. You smiled. You were patient as the ringing finally began to fade and I could remember how the words were supposed to sound.

          “The- your button, for the thing,” I struggled even as I stared at it. I could read the words on the button, but the pressure to perform, to talk, kept them from meaning anything.

You looked confused as you turned your backpack. Your eyes shifted back and forth until you caught on to what I had been staring at.

          “Oh!” Your face lit the world. “That! Yeah, that was really cool. Shanon, my sister, introduced me to this guy that…”

          You didn’t force me to talk or expect me to jump in with my own anecdotes. You told me about the camp you’d worked at for your last few summers where you mentored children with cerebral palsy.

          You let me set my own pace and I knew you got it.

          The first time I spoke to you, not struggled, but spoke, I said, “I have expressive aphasia.”

          You nodded and waited, eyes on mine.

          I smiled.

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This piece was published in the 2017 print journal.

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