Eurostar

I know places

I hate the heat. I hate how it burns my skin and how it makes me sweat. I hate the sticky sensation
on the palms of my hands. I hate that I'm feeling swollen and sore, red and disoriented. I
understand how some can see heat, summertime, sunshine and blue skies as sexy, an incitement
to physical proximity, but I just don't. It makes me want to retreat; I don't rejoice in the seasonal
happiness. I've always longed for rainy, extended nights, and summer always equals a specific
type of misery, under which forced smiles and laughter abound. London always offers shelter from
blistering heat: its wind, its temperamental clouds, its mild-mannered temperatures, its level-
headed rain. London is lovely as its parks offer the royal luxury of consistent shade and
remarkable views of the Thames. London, all in all, could be lovely in the summer.
But if your body is burning, then what do you do? If your heart rate increases, where do you turn?
If you feel something in the pit of your stomach, gaining in size, obstructing the airway, turning
your vital organs into mush, then what? Your brain goes into hyperdrive, takes over any other
functioning element of he body, currently paralysed by this external feeling you're not sure you
want to have. The discomfort then sets in, and touch is unwelcome. But I long for it, I yearn for it,
and as I reach out across the small table to a semi-open hand, that doesn't quite close around my
fingers, I feel a pang in my stomach that this isn't reciprocated the way I would want it to be. I
wanted those fingers intertwined in mine. I wanted them to close on my hands as a blanket covers
a shivering body; I wanted their palm to slam against mine, the wet sound and the mingling of
nervous symptoms would bind them for as long as the table will continue to act as a closed border,
a visible customs check, a transitional line into another world. But the fingers remained limp and
indecisive, yet still holding mine, a minimum effort to keep me near.
Sometimes as I drink from a glass of wine, and notice the imprint of my lipstick on the rim, I slowly
rise my eyes and look at him doing the same. The thin curve of his lips disappearing into trimmed
and kept facial hair, the small but strong hand holding the stem and the greed with which he
swallows expensive vintage are appealing and arousing. His eyes, stern, whirlpools of earth,
chocolate and marine depths, wide open and focused, narrow and awake, stare at me through the
wine, a yellow, dry Galician. My face is probably distorted, unreal, tainted, but in that, better. Our
glasses clink, a cheer to the heat, a cheer to London, a high-pitched familiar noise like any other
table for two in any other city in any other place in the world where alcohol is readily available and
women fall for men they shouldn't fall for. I don't remove my hand from his; he keeps talking. The
alcohol unravels me in mid-tempo, a shoe gaze tune matching my cuffed jeans and blazer, that I
end up slowly removing, letting the fabric slide off a sore shoulder, folding it on a chair next to me.
His hand remains there, unmoved, not betraying a single nervous impulse, while his eyes blink
rapidly and scan the scarred lines of ink on my skin. He whispers things to himself, then draws
closer to inspect them. I wonder if it shows that I have goosebumps, a teenage prematurity in
desire betraying frustration and sexual petulance. It takes so much effort to keep any muscle
tension inside oneself. I could easily grab an ice cube from the bucket and let it run across my
neck; it's hot, it's humid, our table is underneath a row of plants, no one is looking at us, and my
skin is burning. Instead, I clench my jaw and play with the glass. My fingerprints remain on the cup,
through sweat, through condensation, through physical translation of the communication that did
not go through him. If alcohol is a social lubricant, it will take more than this bottle.
I hate the heat. I hate that it leaves me wanting and removes control of my body. I hate that it
makes me want to push other bodies away, instead of pulling them closer to mine. As I shifted
uncomfortably in my seat on the Eurostar, I absent-mindedly bit my lip, tasting the iron in my
blood, playing with my phone in my hands, wondering if anything might change or melt away. My
insides were shoved through the ringer. Desire ate my insides, displaced my organs, increased my
heart rate, pooled the sweat at the base of my neck. Later, under the shower, I scrubbed, I
lathered, I tried to cool off, relax, stretch, breathe. But wanting, longing, yet being kept at arms
length, with the only possibility of satisfaction being the almost reluctant fingertips of an
outstretched hand is cruel. I think of his ears, how I want to bite them. I think of his naked neck, as
he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, watching me watch him. I think about the chiming song of his
cufflinks dropping on the wooden table as he unrolled his sleeves. I think of my lipstick on the
glass, a dark but shimmery shade of red, drunk and eaten out of my lips, the way he didn't do it.

Some men are characterized by their absence. It’s in the hole shaped like a body once loved
and adored that they are remembered. We are reminded of them in lingering memories and
the lonely senses of the abandoned. The love they were given hangs around cities, countries,
places once crowded with sentiment. Now it floats, weightless but with enough mass they can
drown others with it. The richness of their color is a deep shade of blood red wine that turns
the heads of the most sensitive and hurts like only an unattended wound can. The names we
no longer speak and the voices we no longer hear still resonate in train stations and airport
halls. The smell of clothes can’t be washed off. I leave a small bag of lavender twigs in a
place no one can find; I carry sage with me at all times; I add thyme, turmeric, and saffron to
all my shelves, rare colors and luxurious flavors, to retain memory of what was once ours, or
maybe not. The past becomes so easily revisited when no one is left to write it with you. And
so you fill in the blanks, alone.
It was so hot when I traveled through West London first on the tube, then with my feet, trying
to see if a corner of this neighbourhood could feel familiar, if there was something I could fit
in. Notting Hill, it seems, isn't my area. I have outgrown the places I idolised in my teen years
and was now irritated to cross streets during rush hour and not have my bearings. I was
anxious and irritated. I was in a rush, and I was hungry. My hands felt sweaty, polluted, sticky
- unclean. I nervously checked my phone. This time, I wasn't one of those former cigarette
smokers holding onto something inside their hands to fill the void and give them composure. I
was waiting on a time frame and a place and confirmation I was, indeed, expected; that I was
wanted and that I hadn't come there for naught. I was holding onto the fact that someone
might wait for me the same way I was itching for a cigarette I hadn't had in over fifteen years.
London grew on me. It's a sad thing to contemplate: there is never truly one element I can
dish out that would explain why. It's an incremental process that leaves me lukewarm, but
warm nonetheless. Everything is anecdotal; it is very much tied to the people I love there and
the stories we've shared than the city itself. I know that it contains multitudes and that the city
is a character in itself in many stories. I just don't feel it, the way I do my hometown, the way I
do New York, the way I carry so much affection for Berlin or harbour so much hate for Paris.
London is leaving me unfeeling. It's a place. It's not a beating heart. And yet, I walk off the
Eurostar platform each time with a renewed sense of direction, a kick in opportunity. It might
be because it still feels new, after three decades of walking across the channel as if there had
never been any shift in continental plates. London has never hurt me and I never left any
imprint there. It doesn't touch me and I don't affect it. We remain distanced from one another
and therefore allow one another a low to moderate impact on one another's life. It was about
to change. The clouds were lifting and the air pressure was lowering. It felt storm-like; it felt
unnaturally humid and heated. The air was almost palpable, the way it does in the early days
of summer in New York. People removed layers in the street and blinked under the first bare
rays of sunshine. It felt like unwanted exposure, to be thrown into full-bloom spring that way. I
didn't have much time in the city, and I wasn't making the best of it.
I ran to a couple of meetings and I ordered hot drinks, I dodged slow pedestrians and swung
through tube corridors. It's impossible to be in London without something to do. But my brain
wasn't where it was supposed to be. It wasn't as focused as it should; it was scattered, it was
distracted, by a figure, a look and a smile, and I found myself with a dry mouth, nervously
biting the lipstick into my lips, checking my outfits a few additional times, overcome with the
sensation of being underwhelming, inadequate, less-than: less attractive, less stimulating,
less compelling, less desirable. Than what, or who, I didn't know, and don't know still. But my
entire frame, supported by heavy bones and tense muscles, continued to be a burden as a I
exhaled, going through the gates and onto the Circle Line. I had never felt on trial for as long
as I had been an adult. Ironically, my life is a long series of trials and trial preparation. But
there was nothing my much touted Ivy League education could prepare me when it came to
romantic and sexual rejection. It had nothing to do with my remarkable capacity to order the
right wine with the right dish or the shape of my arms when I slowly reach out from under the
table to sneak a look at my email inbox. It was me, and it was a problem.
Pop music is often a problem. It's ubiquitous and a complete ear worm especially when it
happens to match your inner turmoil. As a result, I walked past a pub that blasted Sting's "I
can't stop thinking about you", with an updated Police guitar riff and rhythm line, about running through the streets of midtown Manhattan for an elusive woman that may not even exist; but the breathless run is endless, and isn't about the chase as much as it is about base satisfaction. "I can't stop wanting you this way", he says, "I can't stop wanting you", he ends, and the plea is a leitmotiv in my brain. "I can't stop wanting you", it repeats, "I can,t stop
wanting you", and the tube stops at Gloucester Square; "I can't stop thinking about you", and
I'm not so solid on my own two feet as I exit at Notting Hill Gate, headed towards the loud
masses on Portobello Road. "I can't stop wanting you this way", as I can't chose a place in
which to wait. I enter a pub, a British, west London version of what Brooklyn would consider a
dive bar, I order a glass of white wine, and I'm not even warning him I'm there. I leave my
phone with the bartender along with my change as I rush to the bathroom. I push open a
door, and a woman is in front of me. She's startled by the sound of my footsteps behind her.
She's wearing a white polo shirt and a dark green skirt; I thought she was a waitress
somewhere else first. Down two flights and I pushed open the door to the bathroom. Washed
my hands. "I can't stop wanting you." I try to blow them dry. They're still clammy. "I can't stop
wanting you", and I rush back upstairs. He's calling my phone, he's irritated, he can't find me.
I text him the name of the bar, I put the phone down, screen away from me, and I open a
book. Sartre. In French. On my glass of poor quality Chardonnay, dark red lipstick around the
rim. "I can't stop thinking about you", it sings, in perfect harmony.
When it gets too crowded, or too loud, I shut down, I need a distraction. I look up, or close my
eyes for a split second so I can concentrate again. London feels that way, too. One crowded
road can immediately become a quiet residential street around a corner. It's both comforting
and unsettling. During something as performative as a courtship ritual, it could be the most
welcome sign of environmental support or burden you with focused silence. And so I tried to
make the songs in my head quiet down as well and concentrate on falling in lockstep. I was
falling into something else, too, but that didn't matter so much at this point. I felt uneasy and
out of breath. I had tried to relieve the tension with anything, a lot hot shower, a slowly sipped
cold beer, but the heat kept rising, the pressure kept dropping, the clouds gathering in an
otherwise easy sky, and I waited for the thunder to roll over and take over my discomfort. It
only happened later, after the spicy food, after the hand-holding, after bottles of semi-
expensive wine in buckets of ice, after antique furniture and photos taken of my tattooed body
parts for an unknown purpose. A storm, a collision of pockets of hot and cold air, is all about
timing. If the winds don't push evaporated water and built-in pressure into one another, there
is no crash. Both forces narrowly dodge one another, go their own way, each carrying a bit of
the other - the humidity, the low pressure, the darkness - but avoid conflict, the confrontation,
the destructive clash. When the warm, large raindrops fell onto the pavement in South
Kensington, I got a text. "Do not work", it said. I had come home alone, and it was early. I was
frustrated and idle and alone, and thought displacing the storm clouds onto work was a good
idea. I responded with just that: I should. The reply came: "your loss." To this day, I do not
know what exactly it is that I lost that night; I thought I had already lost it when I saw him
looking back at me while going down the escalators into the Central Line.
If Stevie Nicks sang about the redeeming powers of the written word and the primitive appeal
of air – flying, disappearing, peeling light – what remains unknown outside of the well-kept
confines of Irish traditionals is the healing properties of rain. It doesn’t just cleanse; that’s
what fire does. It can’t ground you; that’s what the dirt does. The rain glides over broken skin
and seeps into open wounds, without any sting, without the bruise of intrusion. Each drop
contains something unique, that is only meant for you, that can make your blood colder and
your skin thicker, but in that you will find self-preservation. Rain turns into rivers that run to the
sea, and can carry you home, no matter how far you’ve gone to escape the absence of love.
Rain coats you in liquid sentiment, washes off the remnants of the infection transmitted by the
leaving of a man, the bruises he’s left on your skin, the inner tissue he’s damaged. The rain
fixes all of that, and thus becomes the most powerful of all elements: it can teach you to stop
the longing.
I often have dreams of being lost in the stacks in a bookstore. This is something that happens
to me regularly, but usually on purpose. In this dream, I am ten feet deep below the lowest
level of The Strand in New York City, and I can’t read my way out. This is a good metaphor
for life: he is a writer, and I love to read, this should have been what I needed. I loved to read
what he wrote; in my head his words were resonating in his voice, the mischievous and passionate tones alike, and his hand gestures, his smile, the way his lips would purse at the idea he could be challenged to a debate. Immediately after, all I can see is how he would pull away from me, his face distorted in disgust, because I am not worth anything more; how he would turn away, look into the distance when I spoke to him or tried to reach out. And so that is what I found myself lost into: the shelves of grudges, accumulated pain, short stories and novels that made up this relationship I was never allowed to read. I must now find answers in other books.

(you can find Sarah on Instagram at @carly_rage_jepsen - and read her other pieces on peach here!)