mot juste

So we’ll take this discomfort, then, and give it a new name. A name easily recognisable as something unwanted. A name easily recognisable as something undesirable, something unwished. This silence. This awkward, incommodious silence. It looms suddenly, a dark cloud above us, before falling down and wedging itself into the small space between. This fog, this unwieldy lack of words, this lack of communication – it shall be the death of us. So we’ll take this discomfort, then, and give it a new name.

But what should we call it?

“I can say it again,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up.” He’s fidgeting, really squirming in his seat. He’s lying. “I just didn’t – didn’t – I had this other thing that I—”

He’s lying, and while he does, I’m left with nothing to say. How does one respond to a boldfaced lie? Resentment? Anger? Fury? None of these things would make any difference – it’s not a lie if it’s a truth to the liar. So we sit, again, in quiet. This dreadful, uncomfortable silence. What should we call it?

“Listen,” I say. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” he says, interrupting, “it’s just that I want you to know that I didn’t forget, that I knew we had a date, but I just had this other thing – you know?”

And we easily slip back into silence. Staring at the table. Picking apart our napkins. Shuffling our feet.

The French probably have a word for it, this silence, them with their words to describe the indescribable. Their déjà vu. Their demimonde. Their avant-garde. The Germans, too, with their feared compound words, the awful German language as Twain dubbed it. Yes, they would have something – and if not, a word could easily be created.

He gives me that smile, and I laugh a little. We’re being silly, of course. There’s nothing wrong here. Our eyes quickly meet and flit away. Dreaded silence melting away to something more innocent.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I just want you to call next time you can’t make it.”

He averts his eyes.

We both know that there will be a next time, and we both know that he, again, won’t call. We both know these things, but it seems to not matter at the moment.

So we’ll take this discomfort, then, and give it a new name. A name easily recognisable as something unwanted but something innocent. A name easily recognisable as something undesirable, something unwished, but something unsullied. This silence. This awkward, naïve silence. It emerges suddenly, a gauzy mist above us, before falling down and wedging itself into the small space between. This haze, this unwieldy lack of words, this lack of communiqué – it shall bring us together for the time being. So we’ll take this discomfort, then, and give it a new name. This silence, this façade – we shall have to call it something.