@emily.mcvl
contact@mccolville.com
I leave for Halifax tomorrow. We argued before you flew out a few days ago, and I brought it up again today, to apologise. I think I hoped the apology might make me feel better. It didn’t.
I tell myself I want to be understood, but I suspect I mostly want to impress you. I want you to see me not quite as I am, but as the person I think I could become: confident, funny, charming, largely untroubled by how she is perceived. What I want, apparently, is for you to recognise the version of me who would have no interest in being recognised. She wouldn’t need anyone’s approval and would therefore receive it effortlessly. Annoying, really.
I keep trying to recover some dignity, preferably in a way you will notice and admire. You always seem more distant when you’re there. You would probably call it being busy, which is fair and therefore irritating.
I should stop asking what you think of everything. Keep some things to myself again. I used to be quite good at that. I could make something and let it exist without immediately submitting it for assessment.
I have put my phone face down. This is meant to suggest that I am no longer waiting for you. It would be more convincing if I stopped turning it over.
I showed you the snails and the lobster because I wanted you to like them. You said they were nice. I thanked you and threw them away later. You once described your ex as an amazing artist. You have never described me that way. Perhaps she was one. Perhaps I am asking you to make me feel exceptional every time I make something, which is probably tiring. It is certainly tiring for me. Sometimes I think you are ungenerous with praise. Sometimes I think no amount of it would satisfy me. They all make me want to pull away from you. I would also like you to notice and stop me, which rather undermines the exercise.
I should have kept the snails.