V. The Jack of Clubs Speaks to His Faithless Queen

In this place, I like to think that I don’t need you. One day flows into the next, and I hardly give you a second thought.

I come here because it consoles me. Breathing the city means breathing you. The day-to-day bewilderment, the randomness of the billboards along the highways that rise to meet the stars, the daily struggle for a seat in the train, a window of five minutes to avoid a deduction for tardiness, the glamorous Dionysian parties on weekend that I read about in magazines - I cannot abide by such cosmopolitan madness.
I wish you were here with me. It takes five hours to get here by bus, and what a luxurious sleep with you resting against my shoulder. I would win you over with my stories, with my knowledge of this faraway place, and tell you everything I’ve read in the travel books. You would listen to me, you would find my talk a little interesting, and maybe, finally, we could talk about our childhoods. We would imagine we spent the first afternoons of our lives together climbing trees and chasing after spiders and butterflies. The present would be an extension of our idyllic past.

And when we’re both tired and flushed from the excitement of our shared memories, we would slowly nod off - but you would fall asleep before I do. I would time my breathing with the rise and fall of your chest.

You would not need to love another.

VI. Queen of Hearts in Disguise

I have a confession to make.

I want to tell you why I cannot look you in the eye. I studiously fasten my gaze on inanimate objects in front of me, trying not to arouse your suspicion when I glance at your profile. Memory is elusive, you see, and while I want to remember the shirt that you’re wearing or how your eyes light up when you tell me about something that means to you, I cannot form a clear enough image in my mind.

I wish I could trace the contours of your face with my fingers. I would start from your forehead to the tip of your nose, down to your lips. Then I would tilt your chin upwards and make you face me. Do you understand? Your face will leave imprints on my hands so that I can recall your face one day when my memory fails me. When I think of you, I only see shadows and shapes, mediated by how I want to remember you. Sometimes I imagine that your gaze is fixed upon me, and that you have better eyes. You will remember me that way, just by looking at me. But I can only remember you in Braille.

I wish I could explain to you that when my smile is too bright while my gaze drifts away, I am upset with you. I have no reason, really, to demand your undivided attention. But imagine this, imagine you are a child again and it is your first time to deliver a speech before a crowd that might as well number a hundred strong, and your chest is puffed up, your hands are shaking and when you open your mouth to speak, your voice squeaks. The audience looks at you politely, they try to listen to you at first, but after the first few sentences they have already judged you and lost interest. That is how I feel when I talk to you. You have the ability to respond to my tentative words and questions without needing to think, you needn’t listen to my futile attempts at meaningful conversation. My voice disappears into the general din, and you have lost interest.

Your only interest is in the cards. In your Queen of Sorrows.