That night, at the Wendy's, my tears came on so fast that they shocked even me. I was like a gunshot victim who saw the blood before she felt the pain. What is this liquid? How did it get on my face? It happened because I was sad, and drunk, and lovelorn, but I also think it happened because I had so much to say and no idea how to say any of it. I was a shy kid, a fact that surprises friends of mine who struggle to complete a sentence whenever I'm on a loudmouth tear. But back then, I was practically mute. I wanted to explain that I liked the college dropout. That I hoped he didn't think I was too young for him. That I hoped he might kiss me, and if he did, I hoped I could figure out how to do it right. Instead, what I said was, "Do you like my cousin?"
He said, "I dunno, maybe."
And the next thing I knew, the baked potato was blurring beneath me.
There is a rap on us criers that we are just master manipulators. We just want to get our way. And our grand spectacle of emotion, guilt, and self-hatred — the waterworks! — is nothing more than a toddler's temper tantrum. Maybe. Look, I don't know. But this indicates that I have some grand agenda whenever I weep. That I want a better birthday present or a trip to Ibiza. Sometimes, when I cry, it's because I've lost sight of what I want. And I feel so ripped up between what I want, what I thought I wanted, what other people want, and what I want to want that it's like this twelve-car pile-up.
But wait a minute. I actually did cry once when I didn't get a birthday present I wanted. I was turning sixteen, and my boyfriend was a darling and hapless seventeen year old who kept asking me what I wanted. But what I wanted was for him to read my mind. What I wanted was something spectacular and glittering and unspecified. And so I shrugged and told him it didn't matter, which is one of the great lies that teen girls perpetrate on teen boys, along with, "Yes, of course I just came."
Anyway, he did buy me a present. He wanted to get me something "I could use." So he bought me a twelve-pack of Coors and a gift certificate to the Gap.
My first kiss taught me a lot: making out with someone can leave your face smelling like old cheese.
"I love it!" I said, as a tear rolled off my nose and landed on a pull tab.
I cried a lot in that relationship. Actually, I cried a lot in every relationship I've ever had. And this is a series about the times I've done that. Specifically, about the times I've done that in restaurants, where I can't escape, where everyone looks but pretends not to, where my misery has unspooled so often, so painfully, and at such premium prices.
Most people's relationships end in tears. Somehow, mine actually start with them.
Like that night at Wendy's. Later on, at the party, the college dropout and I made out in the hallway. Like I told you, it was my first kiss, and it taught me a lot. I learned, for instance, that making out with someone can leave your neck and face smelling like old cheese. I learned that a guy might stick his tongue in your ear, that it might feel like a fat slug. I learned that when this happened, I might moan like a porn star instead of saying "Ew, I wish you wouldn't do that," which is exactly what I was thinking. I learned that when someone says you should call them the next day, they might never return your call. You might never see that person again, even though you cried in a Wendy's because you were afraid he didn't like you, and because you were thirteen, and and because you were pumped full of Blueberry Schnapps, or Bacardi Rum, or whatever was in the liquor cabinet that night.
Oh, and I learned something else. I learned that if you want a thing very badly, and you don't know how to ask for it, it sometimes helps to cry. n°
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Sarah Hepola has been a high-school teacher, a playwright, a film critic, a music editor and a travel columnist. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, The Guardian, and on NPR. She writes the Scanner blog for Hooksexup and lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
