Runaways

we want what we can't have

It was night and we were all together—my parents and my boyfriend. We walked through a massive flea market like the ones in Berkeley, but bigger and louder. It was warm, and packed with colorful characters: city crawlers, city folk. Robert Nesta Marley was playing through a hidden speaker. Vendors were everywhere selling flags, t-shirts, pocket knives, bundles of incense, and weird little knick-knacks you don’t need or really want but feel you must have.

We’d been shopping for a while, but eventually, my man and parents decided they were done; they went to sit in the makeshift waiting area consisting of dirty picnic benches so I could keep browsing.

To each their own.

I reentered the thrall: inspired, seeking, ready for another loop.

And that’s when I spotted a downstairs section I hadn’t noticed before. A record shop on the ground floor of the market that was dim, cool and humming with fluorescent lights. The walls were covered with a classic assortment of posters: Hendrix, Cobain, Morrison, Joplin. There were rolling racks crammed with vintage band shirts, and shelves of old vinyl, CDs and cassette tapes.

As I approached the staircase, the wall leading to it was covered by a corkboard of earrings, rings, and broaches. That’s when I saw a pin of David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust era (my favorite). It was a sterling silver bust of his face, so intricate and beautiful it almost seemed etched by a machine instead of handmade. I approached a worker who was idling in the area, asking after the price. She told me a number that made my stomach sink, so I put it down and kept moving. I was disappointed but I needed to be smart about money.

I made my way to the t-shirts. Did I need another oversized black shirt with a name of a band that I knew three songs from? Absolutely not. Was I going to get one? Absolutely yes. I was weighing the conundrum of Deep Purple vs. The Who—when he appeared. I don’t know where he came from, but suddenly he was standing next to me. He looked like Hozier mixed with my first high school crush: tall and sharp and very Woodstock ‘99. He had long dark hair, brown, kind eyes and that kind of loner hippie-loner energy that made me weak in the knees. He wore a denim jacket, and his smile was soft.

I kind of forgot where I was.

“Hey,” he said, calm and smooth, like we already knew each other. “I heard you wanted this.”

He held out the pin.

“I work here,” he explained, “and I just thought you should have it. On the house.”

I stammered. I said thank you probably too many times. We smiled at each other longer than I think we were supposed to — and then he walked off as abruptly as he’d appeared.

I stood there for a moment. I noticed my hands shaking a little, betraying me.

What was that? Who was that? I thought.

It knew it was best to shake it off, keep it pushing. I resumed browsing, moving through the thicket of pre-worn shirts, but my mind was elsewhere, my head was vibrating. I knew I needed to get a grip and quickly. After all, I had no business in the basement of the market acting like a blushing virgin over a total stranger when I had a boyfriend outside, waiting on a bench. Doting, faithful, oblivious.

So I went back up and out, and found my family and my man. I let them know I was going to be a bit longer before returning to the place I knew he was.

I spotted him shelving something across the room. Without thinking, I followed. He moved through the aisles and across sections, and I kept pace behind him. It was stupid and a little desperate, but I did it anyway. I don’t know why I was acting like such a creep. Maybe I just wanted to feel something —I craved that little rush from doing something I shouldn’t and the possibility of being noticed by someone who didn’t have to love me. A lover I don’t have to love, like Bright Eyes once said.

For a moment, I lost sight of him and found myself near what appeared to be an employees-only section. The lighting was dimmer there; stickering guns, paper bags and stacks of newspaper lined the small space. Weirdly, there was a pile of mattresses scattered across the floor, like a makeshift break room. And there he was — stretched out on one of them with his eyes closed, hair fanned out behind him like a fallen angel.

I don’t know what came over me. I stepped over the rope that marked off the area and laid down next to him. As soon as I did, he turned to look at me, he was so graceful it was as if he had been expecting me. Slowly, he reached for my hand, and forced it upward, pressing his palm against mine like he wanted to analyze the differences between the sizes of our hands and the lengths of our fingers.

“How did you know?” he whispered.

“Know what?” I asked.

“That I’m an addict and a runaway.”

I laughed, but it wasn’t really funny. “We recognize each other,” I said. “It’s in the eyes. You want more. More of anything, more of everything. You don’t like to be still. I get it.”

He smiled, looking more relieved than he did a moment ago.

And for some reason, I kept talking. “Are you single?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

As I considered this news, a chord of panic started in my stomach and was making its way up my spine and through my arms. Guilt was rearing its ugly head at the worst possible moment — but I guess that’s its job. I made myself acknowledge where I was, what I was doing and who was waiting outside none the wiser.

I quickly stood. Blood hissed in my ears and my field of vision sparkled. I steadied myself so he wouldn't try to support me. I knew if he were to put his hands around my waist to brace me, all bets would be off.

I stood firmly, brushing non-existent dust from my pants. He stood too, following me as I frantically made my way back into the crowd.

Breathe. Breathe. Act normal, go to the checkout and stop acting like a fucking lunatic. What are you doing girl? Stop doing whatever it is. I told myself, as I walked on wobbly legs, still trying to regain composure. I trained my focus on a cash register ahead. All I needed to do was get in line, be quiet, face forward and keep my hands to myself. No more of this nonsense. But he was making it extremely difficult. I felt the heat of his pursuit. He stayed close to me like it was normal to tail a stranger.

There was nothing much I could do though — he was bold and relentless — and I was his prey. To my titillation and dismay, I then felt his hand brush against mine as we maneuvered through the bustling flea market. At one point, he reached and grabbed it.

I spun and then shook my head, “I don’t think you should do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a boyfriend.”

He paused, but didn’t seem bothered, “Do you think he’d care? It’s just holding hands, he can’t be mad.”

Disarmed, I said, “Maybe you’re right. People like us have to stick together. And I’ve got to be honest…I wouldn’t exactly mind if he saw.”

And right then — like a scene written by an evil, unreliable narrator — my boyfriend appeared in the crowd. He could have looked for me anywhere else but of course he was in the right place at the right time. X marks the spot.

He stood there watching the two of us, the runaways. His eyes locked on mine with an expression I’ll never forget. Not fury. Not heartbreak. Something quieter, colder… realization. Like he’d just seen something he was never meant to witness and now couldn’t unsee it.

—M