Four Words by Brandon Saumer

Four Words by Brandon Saumer

            Four days without sleep, my hands are always tired from trying to keep them busy. Was it four days? No…how many days have I been walking? My legs move using their bones, they’re so exhausted. My mind feels like it was put back together the wrong way, and my chest has too much blood with nowhere to go. Everything feels like that. I get headaches because I’ve paced the same thoughts countless times. They wear on the floor, and any door to another thought I could open is locked. I might be obsessed, but if I don’t do anything about it, am I still obsessed? This is ridiculous, I have no right to think this much about her. Not after just a few days, not after just one date. I have all this pressure, but no release; no message, no phone call.

            We met at a theatre, she was ordering her popcorn and didn’t have a membership card. If I catch that someone doesn’t, I’ll offer mine so they get discounts, and I get the points. She smiled, thanked me and moved on. I walked into what I expected to be a packed theatre, but it was nearly empty. I like to be early to dress my popcorn with a seasoning packet and get ready for the previews. I have a very specific process for coating popcorn perfectly. Eat the first fifth, enough to pinch the top closed, dump half the packet, shake it thoroughly, then repeat once more. Walking to my seat, I noticed someone was already sitting next to me, and that someone was her. She smiled when I sat down, and after I was partway through my process and dumped the first half of the packet, she asked if she could have some.

I wanted to ask why she didn’t get her own, but fully seeing her next to me in the de-mystifying lights of the pre-film theatre, she was too beautiful for me to be normal. I felt my throat closing and nearly choked swallowing the popcorn in my mouth. I had no choice but to give her the rest of my packet…I’m not sure if I said anything to her during this whole thing. I remember wishing that I hadn’t said anything earlier, so that she might think I couldn’t talk, and this would be less embarrassing. But, nervousness can only show honesty since it’s too hard to lie, and I think she caught on.

She happily took the packet and dumped it on her popcorn. She pinched opposite corners of the bag to shake it, and it seemed like a practiced technique. I mulled over any questions to ask her to keep our interaction going, but all I could manage was, “So, do you like movies?” That’s like asking someone in a restaurant if they like eating. Why else would they be there?

It was likely she thought the same, instead of saying anything, she just lifted her hands to show herself and her seat off. I felt I made a mistake, so I scratched the back of my head and turned to the empty screen. I prayed that any second the lights would go down and the film would save me from this silence. Each second, I could hear my breathing get louder, and sweat on my forehead started to condense and drip. I tried to carefully wipe my brow, hoping she wouldn’t notice, but the corner of my eye caught her, and she was staring directly at me.

I could feel my fight-or-flight switch forcefully to flight. My limbs turned to perforated ice, cold but light. I slapped my popcorn on the theatre floor and asked her if she would watch my popcorn while I stepped out. I was already out of the theatre by the time I registered that she hadn’t said anything back.

I washed my face off in the bathroom and tried to shake off whatever this was, it helped that my senses were being assaulted by the poorly maintained men’s room. It soured my mood enough for me to find some control again. I wiped the water off and went back into the theatre.

Walking up the stairs to row F, where we had been sitting alone, I noticed more people had come in, specifically, someone was sitting on the other side of me. I walked down the aisle, she looked at me and pointed to my untouched popcorn on the ground. I thanked her and took my seat. The man newly next to me was in his mid-40s, if I had to guess, but more importantly, he was chatty. He asked me if I‘ve seen this yet, if I’m alone, what my name was–Every question I wanted to ask her, but couldn’t. Then, he asked, “Uh, do you like movies?” and she laughed.

The man, whose name I learned, unprovoked, was Karl, and Karl wouldn’t stop asking me questions even with the increasingly cold responses he was getting. I’m not one to be rude, I’ll be anything before that, so I was concise, but made sure to keep a friendly tone. Halfway through another of Karl’s ceaseless questions, the girl next to me tugged on my shirt. Karl kept going as I turned to her.

“I forgot candy, could I use your card again?” She said in almost a whisper, and before I even said yes, I was already standing up. She followed me out as we apologized to Karl and got back in the concession line. 

“What kind of candy do you like?” We’d been in silence for long enough, but I was a bit disappointed that this was the best I could come up with.

“I don’t really, but I couldn’t listen to Karl ask anymore questions.”

“Was he? I barely noticed over the previews playing.”

“The previews haven’t started yet.”

“Oh, he was just loud then.” I gave her a cheeky smile, and she gave me a laugh. That trade didn’t seem very fair to her, but for me, it was silver for gold.

Talking came easier now, to the point that by the time we got to the front of the line, I talked over the cashier to finish my thought. She asked for another packet of white cheddar seasoning to make up for the half she took. I lost myself to the moment, and she paid without asking me for my membership. Maybe I should have offered it again.

We watched the movie, which would have been better without Karl chiming in every so often, and when the lights came up, she started to get out of her seat. I tried to ask for her number or what she was doing later, but she beat me to it, extending her phone to me. I put my number in, and she sent me a message right away. Hi, this is Emmie.

“Do you think there’s going to be a sequel?” Karl said, as oblivious as ever, but instead of my usual friendly response, Emmie cut him off.

“Karl, would you mind leaving us alone?”

Karl and I sat stupefied while what she said entered his ears and swirled before he could make sense of it. “Sorry, I was just– You didn’t have to be rude.” And finally, we were free.

We stayed in the theatre, talking about the parts we liked and some we didn’t. I might’ve got carried away because we had to be peeled out of the theatre by the cleaning staff. After being ushered out, I walked her to her car and waved goodbye. The entire time, I was clutching my phone in my pocket, excited to put it to use, even while she was right in front of me.

& & &

Talking with her was so easy. Instead of ignoring my phone like I used to, I always had a finger on it to feel the vibration of a message received. I was worse with everyone else, as if the sender wasn’t “Emmie”, I swiped away the notification and continued waiting.

First, we talked about movies, low-hanging topical fruit, and she jokingly asked me if I kept in touch with Karl. I analyzed every message I sent to her, balancing emojis and punctuation to maintain a certain ‘cool’ image. I didn’t know if most men use emojis, or if girls find them unattractive; my only real relationships have been with characters on the silver screen. This was all so new to me, and the one thought that kept repeating was “I can’t ruin this”.

I started sending riskier messages, showing more of my true self, alleviating the weight I put on the persona I created. To my surprise, she still responded as quickly as she always did. Unfortunately, this only drove her hook in me deeper. One day, all I wanted to do was talk to her, so I just sat on my bed and waited. If she texted me, I’d text back, then I’d go back to my new favourite hobby. The only reason I noticed that time was passing was because my body would force a stretch once in a while to remind itself it wasn’t a part of the bed. Four hours had passed and I hadn’t eaten, moved, or gone to the washroom–and I wanted to do it for another four, but she had to go to sleep.

I remember tossing in my bed that night, even the blackout curtains couldn’t dim my smile. It was annoying trying to sleep when every time I moved, my teeth would brush against the pillow I was trying to smother myself in. An involuntary titter escaped when I thought of a specific thing she said, or how she told me she laughed while reading a joke of mine in public and got a couple of glares. She liked me, she really did.

& & &

I can’t ruin this.

I can’t ruin this.

I can’t ruin this.

I repeated those four words in my head on an infinite loop every second from when we made plans to meet the day before, up until the moment we met. I wanted to think of a funny opening line, conversation topics to default to, fun things to do or ways to impress her, but all I could think was “I can’t ruin this.” Then, a door chime.

I was standing in line at the coffee shop, hoping I could see her sitting down. I could wave, order and walk over to her, all the while I could get my thoughts straight. But, I couldn’t see her anywhere while I stood and the queue in front of me to the barista got shorter and shorter…Then, I got the text that she was here. I wish I had known that was the last thing she would send me. I don’t know if it would make this easier, but I could have started grieving earlier, if that’s what this is.

I looked around like a lost child until I caught a glimpse of her, but I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at her. Poets would say it was because she was too bright, but I think it was because I was too scared. Coward–I thought to myself, but then she was beside me.

What should I do? Hug her? Compliment her? I wonder if anything else was better than what I did, which was to say “Hi”. Everyone was looking, weren’t they? Of course, she was beautiful, and what was I? Someone she found in a theatre. What if she didn’t get a good look at me? What if I look at her now and she thinks I’m ugly? Isn’t it better to be mysterious anyway?

We ordered our coffees and stood awkwardly by the counter. I made a referential joke to something we chatted about, and she took it seriously, which, according to the movies, wasn’t a great sign. Coffee kept being put in front of us, but it was never our order. Every time we had to step aside for someone to grab their drink was another moment I wasn’t sure I could survive. I could feel those four words in my head growing in size, and by the third unaffiliated cup of coffee, they had grown so large I thought my head would split.

We eventually got our coffee, I had a mocha–maybe a mocha wasn’t a good choice, men drink black coffee, not melted truffles–and we stepped outside. I was so relieved to be away from the prying eyes that I let out a large exhale, which I’m afraid she noticed. Then, and even now, I couldn’t think of a single thing I said inside that coffee shop, even though I’m sure I was talking.

Taking a spontaneous right down the street, away from the main road and moving into the residential area, she spotted a sign for a yard sale. Emmie decided she wanted to go, and I decided I would go anywhere she wanted to go. I wanted her to feel free to be herself, and I was just happy to be along for the ride.

The yard sale was on 16th St., but the issue was that we had no idea what street we were on. The neighbourhood was homely enough that it rejected street signs, so we walked until we found one. We talked aimlessly, me answering her questions and asking her the same. I was so engrossed in learning about her that I didn’t even stop to wonder if that was what she wanted. I asked, I reacted, I probed–but never too far–and I could feel a meticulous routine coming on that pressed down those endlessly repeating words so that they were just a murmur.

A couple of blocks on our walk, we finally spotted a street sign that told us we were on 13th St., but we had to keep walking since we weren’t sure if we started on 14th or 12th. Another block, and we got our answer; we were going the wrong way. We crossed the street for new scenery and went back the way we came.

On the way, halfway through another question, we came across fresh cement, and I came across an idea. Was it an idea, or an impulse? Is there a difference? All I can say is I pushed my palm on the cement, leaving my handprint in the hardening foundation. I didn’t stop to think, because if I had, I’d probably have known that cement would stick to my hand. She was laughing while I had a fistful of cement, and those four words came back even louder.

As I looked for a place to wipe the cement off, which could have been a problem if she were environmentally conscious, she found a stick and started to write in the cement. Even impulsively, she was smarter than me. I heard heavy footsteps coming from around the corner of the house we were vandalizing and warned her. She dropped the stick and joined me as we walked off, pretending we weren’t the only people who could have possibly been responsible for marring the workers’ newly finished cement. I never asked her what she was drawing in that cement…I was just focused on cleaning it off my hand. After wiping it on the grass, which should be fine since it will eventually turn to pebbles, we continued our odyssey to the yard sale.

We passed the coffee shop and finally found affirming signs. 14th St., then 15th…Then, a pathway, but no more streets. In front of us was a wall of houses, and no option forward but through. We marvelled at the possibility of there not being a 16th St., but we decided a bastion of homes wasn’t enough to stop us. We took a detour to our left, a path that walks you down the river and ends in a park; romantic enough.

As we strolled under the trees, we talked ceaselessly, and it had never been so simple. Usually, I either have to force conversations or prattle on to cover the silence, but with her, I didn’t need to. Conversation flowed as easily as the river, and any silence felt comfortable. I thought it was comfortable, but maybe I should say hoped. After all, you can never know what someone else is thinking.

She asked me what I assume are common questions for a date: where are you from, how many siblings do you have, where have you travelled, and what was my worst injury? Then she asked me things that nobody has before.

“What do you think happens when you die?”

I almost stopped walking, I couldn’t believe it. I had to pay a therapist to talk about these things with me just because nobody else would, and she would. I got so excited, but none of the thoughts that I left in the dark would come to light. It’s such a vague question that I got lost in the details and started to stammer. Where should I begin? Should I begin? What if this were a test? Was there a right answer? I still hadn’t said a word while I was looking up to the sky, which was cloudless earlier, praying for an epiphany.

“I think we have a conversation, then we start again. What about you?” Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her right away, but I felt too vulnerable, and I had to move the spotlight back to her, where it belonged. She talked about a version of karma, that what we do in this life comes with us to the next. That good and evil stacks the deck with your actions, and whatever hand you’re dealt is the hand you deserve.

“How do you know what an evil action is? What if they didn’t have another choice?” I said, hoping to learn more about her philosophy so I could contribute without scaring her away.

“I guess…If you wanted to hurt people, that would be evil,” she said, and I loved it, I loved everything she said. I’ve spent enough time to earn a Master’s degree pondering on evil and what it’s comprised of. To me, evil without a story can only be evil; murder is death, but I haven’t found a single evil that can survive a story. Revenge can look like justice, and while they’re similar, they’re different words for a reason. She diluted all my logic and sleepless nights into simplicity. If you’re aim is to hurt, even good can be evil. I wanted to ask her more, but then she stopped walking and turned across the street. “Well, that’s me,” and I could see she was looking at a car, her car. And, in the same way it ended at the theatre, the date was over.

My cheeks were sore, was I smiling the entire time? I tried to string the goodbye out as long as possible because I couldn’t imagine what was beyond this. She asked me earlier about my plans for this weekend, and I had to say nothing, because even before this date, I didn’t want to think about anything else.

I made a joke about the apartment building next to her car, something like I thought she was driving that, but she had an appointment to keep that I neglected to keep in mind. We hugged, she thanked me for the coffee, and I forced out the words I needed to say.

“I’d really like to see you again.”

“Yeah, I’ll text you,” and then she was gone.

Did I ruin it?

Did I ruin it?

Did I ruin it?

& & &

It had been two days since then, and still no text. I sent her a message the day after our date, wishing her luck on a half marathon she was running, but nothing back. I like to think I’m a hopeful romantic, but now I’m realizing I might just be hopeless. Another day of silence, and my chest started to constrict. Maybe she’s busy. I couldn’t imagine what it takes to run a marathon, she probably finished and fell asleep across the finish line, I could wait another day. But with each second, my ribcage continued to squeeze.

A few hours into day three, and the pain was immeasurable. I was certain that my bones would break or my organs would be crushed, but I kept breathing, barely. I couldn’t focus on anything. I stood in front of my coffee maker blankly for 15 minutes before realizing I hadn’t filled it yet. I sat down, but I didn’t know where. I didn’t want to do anything but talk to her.

I kept my phone on constant surveillance. I watched for any signs of life, but ironically, nobody sent me a message during this agony. Not my friends, not my parents, the phone may as well have been dead, but while I was waiting for her message, it was my beating heart.

My heart was compressed to the point that blood seemed to stop flowing through my body, and I became intimately familiar with the ceiling above my bed. Its pattern, bumps, and stains all seemed to reflect my own. I was embarrassed to catch myself talking to it once or twice. I was tired, but I couldn’t get my eyes to close in fear that I would miss her message.

Another day, and it wasn’t getting any better. I woke from what could have only been a couple of hours of forced sleep by closing my eyelids against the pillow. I tried watching a movie, but I couldn’t even remember the title five minutes into it, and 20 minutes later, I still couldn’t name a single character.

I had to do something, so I went for a walk. I had the idea that I could figure this all out, and the fresh air and sunlight could bring me back into the world. Instead, I walked until my legs couldn’t hold me up confidently, sat by a foreign river, and did it again. I kept walking even after I proved to myself that what I thought was a rock in my shoes was budding blisters.

She doesn’t like you. Four more words that came to haunt me.

She doesn’t like you.

She doesn’t–Where am I?

I looked around and none of the landscape was familiar. How many streets had I crossed to get here? I got close enough to a road to make out the sign, but I didn’t recognize it. I could’ve turned back, but to what? I had walked long enough that my knees were shaking, but I still hadn’t figured anything out. I decided to keep walking the path, I would find my way home eventually.

Then, an idea: romance. Isn’t that what romance is, winning someone back? I remembered being a teenager, and the lengths I would go to for a girl’s good favour, what changed? I could do this, I could scrape the rust off, put on a new layer of paint and swoon her. But, how? If she wouldn’t take me on a second date to prove I’m better than what I must have been, what options did I have? First, I need to figure out what I did wrong, because I must have done something, and then I could work on fixing it.

The pain from the blister on my right foot had numbed out just in time for the left foot to bloom with a new blister, but this didn’t bother me. I replayed the entire date over and over in my head, reminiscing over every question, answer and response. I thought I didn’t ask her enough questions, so I listed everything I knew about her in my head. The list grew and grew until I realized I knew more about her than most of my friends.

I stopped by another creek and took my shoes off to wade in the water. There was a shock as my feet touched the running water, in that it was so freezing. I thought it might be too cold, but the relief the water brought warranted the risk. I sat there until my feet were no longer cold and the water felt like a gentle hand brushing passed on its way to something better, a pond it could find another to entangle with. I mulled over every joke I made, and I tried to remember her laugh, but it wasn’t as common in my memories as it was in my first instinct. What did her laugh sound like? Maybe I laughed with her and it covered it up, or I was too focused on the bit to see her reaction, or maybe she didn’t laugh as often as I thought.

We talked about movies, but she wasn’t interested in most of my favourites, and every conversation we started about them became our shortest talking point yet. She confessed that she only saw the movie because of the lead actor and doesn’t go that often. It’s strange to think that your first idea of someone is seldom who they are.

& & &

Four days without sleep, and my legs are so tired that if I think about them, they’ll stop. The scenery has changed, so I know I’m far from home. I check my phone, the battery is low, but there are still no messages. I’ll shut it off and just turn it on briefly every couple of hours to see if she’s texted me. There was a time while I was walking that a sharp thought came into my mind. What if she got hurt, and that’s why she can’t text you? I quickly corrected myself and thought how horrible it is to assume someone should be injured instead of speaking to you. If I believe that, then I’m really not worth talking to. It would be malicious, and to her, that would mean I belonged in Hell. This made me laugh, as it already felt like I was there.

Romance found me again under the pain, and I was rejuvenated. I’ll send her a message and face this head-on. I made a mistake, I must have. How do we go from being so close to being so far? I’ve played over the entire thing countless times, so much so that I’ve forgotten anything else, and I still haven’t found one moment that you looked at me in disgust or got angry. I see you smiling, I see you laughing, I hear you recount all those beautiful moments of your life that you thought were mundane, but still no answer. So, I’ll apologize for everything.

I keep walking as I draft my message in my head so I can type it, send it, then shut off my phone to save enough power for her reply. It can’t be too long; if she doesn’t like you, she won’t read a monologue. Not unserious, as it needs to be genuine, but not dramatic enough that it seems obsessive. Obsessive; the word echoes a few times before I dismiss it as fatigue manifesting into repetition. It was only one date, am I obsessive? Should I get a second opinion? No, that side of me is just for her. Has it really only been four days? I look down at my shoes, and I can’t remember if they’d always been this dirty.

I keep lifting my legs and placing them down to simulate walking, as while my body has given up, unable to bear this weight, my mind cannot. Word by word, letter by letter, I construct the message mentally until I’m satisfied that it conveys what I need it to. The meaning is plain: I need to see you again, but it’s playful in the same way as my nervous stumbles on the date were. I took responsibility for what she was feeling, as it had to be something I had done. I turned my phone on–no message–and started writing.

My battery is at seven percent, which is plenty. I finish the message and dredge it for any spelling or grammatical errors, but it still feels unfinished. I stare at my phone, waiting for the rest to come to me as I watch the number go from seven percent, to six, to five…Finally, it comes. I finish the message with one more sentence, “One more chance is all I’ll ever need.”, but that’s not what I wanted to say. It wasn’t the four words that were repeating in my head while I watched the battery dwindle. It wasn’t what assaulted me behind the walls, words that didn’t have form until I pressed send and turned my phone off again.

Why wasn’t I enough?

& & &

Paved walkways and sidewalks turned into unkept pathways. Then, they turned into dirt roads, and finally, just earth. I’ve wandered too far, and I still don’t have my answers. I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen the sun set with my hopes, and rise again with them just the same. Every day had hours of opportunity for her to read the message and change her mind. At any moment, she could remember a joke or something we did that reconnects her with how she felt about me, as it’s obviously not how she feels about me now. But as it does and always will, the sun sets again.

I turn on my phone. No message. My battery is at three percent.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

& & &

There’s snow now, which reminds me of the trees when they lost their colours, which must have been months ago. My shoes have been worn down to my socks, and the soles of my feet have calloused and replaced the rubber that protected them. I’m cold, but I wonder if I’ll get used to it the same as I did when my laces broke, or when my clothes started to tear. How I used to be afraid of thorns, but now if there’s bramble in my way, I’ll just walk through it.

Habitually, my hand reaches for my left thigh, but there’s nothing there. I put my hand in my pocket and discovered a hole at the bottom. Whatever was in it must have fallen out weeks ago, and try as I might, I can’t remember what used to be there or why my pants have a rectangular crease there.

That’s right, I was waiting…What was I waiting for again? I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, but I can’t stop; this feeling in my chest won’t go away, so there must be somewhere I need to be. Of course, I was going to meet someone, but who? It must not have been that important, so I’ll forget about it for now and keep walking. I can’t stop because then my heaviest emotions catch up to me, and I’m not going very fast anymore. I still feel guilt, a dreadful lingering that’s always going in the same direction I am. Did I hurt someone, or did they hurt me? I’m not sure anymore, I don’t remember if I ever was, but it doesn’t matter now. I’ll forget the names of these feelings if I walk enough, then maybe they’ll go away as well.

I’ll just keep walking.

I’ll just keep walking.

Please, never stop walking.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Brandon Saumer 2025