Cleopatra and Frankenstein

They did not yet know what he did. That you could be gifted, hardworking, tenacious, even touched by a little bit of luck, and still not succeed, or if you did, not have it last. That never to experience achievements commensurate to your talent, never to receive adequate payment for your efforts, was a terrible, demoralizing thing.

“What do you do not to feel sad?” I ask.

“I let myself feel sad.”

That was the real inheritance from her mother, she thought, more defining than any facial feature or mannerism. They both wanted to disappear.

I am dancing slowly, arms outstretched, to Wham’s “Last Christmas.” This is my favorite song of all time. It is full of pathos and insight. Perhaps the real tragedy here is not that George Michael’s heart was given away, but that this beautiful song is relegated to only one month of the year, when its message of unrequited love leading to a deepening resolve to choose more deserving partners is undeniably relevant year-round.

Everyone I know is either more successful or more interesting than me. This realization is nothing new. In fact, it used to feel like everyone I didn’t know was more successful and interesting than me too.

Everyone I know is either more successful or more interesting than me.

Why did she feel the need to make everyone, even this waiter, like her? What a thing it must be to be indifferent to indifference.

Fun was fine when you were young, but as you got older it was kindness that counted, kindness that showed up.

“When was the last time you were with a straight man, I’m talking any straight man, and he said something more interesting than what you were already thinking?”

“You didn’t pick someone like me.”
“No. Eleanor’s not like either of us.”
“How is she different?”
“You really don’t mind talking about her?”
“I’m curious.”
“Okay, well, Eleanor has this mother. She intimidated me at first actually because she just—she’s fierce. Fiercely loving. And Eleanor grew up in a house in the suburbs with a garden and something called a visitor’s couch and, you know, three different types of bird feeder.”
Cleo nodded. “The height of domesticity.”
“Exactly. And it wasn’t perfect—her parents divorced when she was young, and she had this weird relationship as a teenager with an older guy—but I could tell she felt safe in that house. She grew up feeling safe and fiercely loved.”
When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Cleo’s eyes had glazed with a thin film of tears. “That sounds nice,” she said quietly.
“And you and I didn’t get that, not because we didn’t deserve it, we just got dealt something else. But the people who did get that love, they grew up to be different from us. More secure. Maybe they’re not as shiny or successful as you and I feel we have to be. But it’s not because they’re not interesting. They just don’t feel they have to do the tap dance, you know? They don’t have to prove themselves all the time to be loved. Because they always were.”
Cleo smiled sadly. “But how do you stop tap dancing if you’re like us?”
“I just got too tired, Cley,” he said. “The shoes didn’t fit anymore. And when I stood still, Eleanor was there standing with me. And I think you deserve to be with someone like that, who can provide that safety and that stillness for you in a way I never could. Even though God knows I wanted to, Cleo. I really wanted it.”
Cleo took his hand across the table. Frank’s freckled hands. She remembered them always in motion, flitting across surfaces, adjusting his glasses, accentuating words in the air with an emphatic, flared-palm gesture that was, just, him. She squeezed his fingers between hers.
“I know you did,” she said. “I wanted to do that for you too.”