An Homage to Nolan’s First Film, Following: Chapter 2
I dated an Israeli boy in college who ceremonially had fifty first dates at the only Chinese restaurant near campus. I hated that I fell for his charm, but how could I not fall for the poetry in his eyes and the intellect on his lips. I didn’t care much for the food, but he’d always save the fortune cookie for me and I’d read them to him as my own offering of Hemingway and Plath. I often think now about the one and only fortune he ever read to me — a notable breach of our established ritual. It said, “The root of suffering is attachment.” Maybe it was a warning or a premonition, but I didn’t take heed. I wish the only thing keeping me from joining the sidewalk concert was a window and the automatic lock on a fancy car.
Attachment is gradual and it starts pure and euphoric, so you don’t even realize when you start to erode, especially when losing parts of yourself is disguised as an act of love or a necessary selflessness. He’s all I’ve known for so long that my decisions are defined by his. For more than 391 days I’ve talked myself out of running or leaving, using his reasoning. I’m not convinced that getting out of this car is better for me. And I think he knows that too… that’s why he left me here: He can rely on me feeling safer in a suffering that I know than an unknown suffering I can bring about through rebellious self-rediscovery.
