#7 What If You See Me

Today’s prompt in Cole’s writing class is themed “Don’t think, write.” write for twenty minutes on the worst nightmare I’ve ever had in a stream of consciousness style, don’t let the fingers become stationary on the keyboard during this time. Take ten minutes afterward to clean it up and post.

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I can’t remember a nightmare, did this prompt mean in life, did it mean in my dreams? Is this it, the pressure to perform, bleary-eyed and excited for the prompt, then to find the prompt and be stuck? I was so excited for it, I saved it as a treat after working on projects for three hours in the library first.

I wish I could be funny about it. What did that girl say in high school? “I wouldn’t be caught dead clashing” — back when sports teams would choose something to do together as a team on a game day. Clash day meant purposely choosing clothes that clashed.

Her worst nightmare was clashing.

What wouldn’t I be caught dead doing?

Having sex in public?

Being caught having sex by my mom?

Well, my brother survived that.

What would I not want people to see me do?

What insecurity is bubbling through?

Am I just afraid to show you my answers?

I’m afraid for people to seeing me spin my wheels and squander time. Right now, I am the only who sees this. By the time this post is published, you will see it too.

My worst nightmare is you seeing me as I am. Wandering around my mind, wandering around my house, sometimes talking, sometimes singing, cooking, tasting the food as I make it, sometimes trying to eat it all in the kitchen before you find me in there.

What would I do if I saw you seeing me eating that glob of fried rice off the spatula, some of it drizzling onto my shirt and caught on my full figure shelf, and my fingers grabbing those gobs and popping them into my mouth?

What would I do if, mid-bite, with my head tilted back and licking my fingers to lap up every last rice grain, you appear in the doorway at that moment and we make eye contact because I have been watching the door, grotesquely self-conscious that you might appear.

What would I do if you appeared then?

No choice but to weather any natural impression you don’t hide.

I’d wash the spatula, feeling guilty that this pan of rice was supposed to be for us, and now you have no idea whether to trust that that bite you saw me shove into my face was the only one or to suspect that I had bitten the spatula before, then plunged it back into the pan for another ball of rice.

In Covid times, you would not approve. You are not my spouse or partner, we are not fluid bonded like that. You’re another person who lives here, and we were supposed to share, and now I have exposed to you my inconsiderations.

What ever will you do?

Will you not eat the rice? Will all this have been futile due to my indiscretion, indiscipline, impulsiveness, self-uncontrol?

I feel my face turning red to think about you laughing, perhaps hiding disgust, then telling me kindly — don’t worry about it, and when I’m finally done cooking, I offer you some fried rice, and you say ‘It’s Ok, I’m good’ and I say ‘But I didn’t eat the part over here’ and you still say ‘it’s Ok, I’m good, no thank’, and I hang my head in shame and say, OK, next time I will control myself better.

Why is this my worst nightmare?

Why am I not writing about the short-lived relationship I had four years ago with 10-hour long phone conversations, or the recent lover with whom I weathered four waves of blooming warmth then destruction, or the time I walked into a room with a project plan for the next year and was instead told that there was no more funding to honor my year-long contract that started three weeks ago and my job now had three months to live?

Why am I not writing about the fireworks fights at home or crying in public or crying in class as an adolescent because I made the wrong steps in square-dancing?

Maybe these instances are over and my version of a nightmare is something that I still fear I cannot handle, but with all of these instances passed and unlikely to happen again, I don’t fear them. Nightmares they are not, or I refuse to get dragged into the headspace of any one of them. Perhaps I cannot compare, as each one felt like ‘the worst’ at the time and now they’ve all gone away.

My worst nightmare is you turning the covers over and seeing the child inside that is lonely and insecure and numbs herself through entertaining the smallest things and is afraid to have bigger goals in life. It’s seeing you see that and turning away in disgust.

Good thing it’s just a nightmare.