Something of a memorial.
I pull my knees up into the booth with me and the edge of the table digs into my shins.
You ordered espresso before I showed up. Did you know I'd be late? I'm always on time. But you always knew everything about me better than I knew it, and I bet you still do.
When the coffee comes by way of a waitress we both recognize, you say, "I don't come to this place without you, you know."
I say nothing for a while, though that comforts me. I wonder if you see anyone we used to know anymore, or if I'm just lucky. Or if I really was that special to you. I adjust my hat. I pretend to scan the bagel bins, leaning to see them around your body. I never thought there'd be a time when I wouldn't have anything left to say to you, but suddenly, that time is now. It feels like the words you just uttered contained the very last sentiment we have in common. That there are still places I don't go because they were ours and songs I'll never put on cd for anyone else ever again. There is even one shirt that I haven't worn since I last saw you. Do you know how I remember which shirt it was? It has a tiny hole in the left shoulder. It ripped when it got stuck on the inside of your car as I was getting out one night. I hate that car.
Today I was reminiscing about the time we mini-golfed and you tripped into the little man-made moat around a model castle. But I can do that on my own. And gossiping about who's gotten pregnant, who's finally moved out of their parents' house? You tell me it's not important, and you're right.
I lay my arm across the table towards you and close my eyes as you put three fingers onto my skin and drum them lightly. To this day, you are the most gentle person I have ever met.
"My dad went on a camping trip with his girlfriend this week. He had a better time than he ever did when he went with me and my mom... I'm happy for him," I say. You give me the sweet look that, through wrinkling eyes and a half-smile, says You can't fool me, darling.
So I breathe what tastes like chlorine, I disinfect myself, and try again.
"I get to play a little piano concert at--" You interrupt me, "Congratulations. I'll be there." I lift my gaze to meet you brown, brown eyes. There is nothing special about that color brown, but I can see your whole world inside them, and I can see myself there, too. With you. In a hammock together, we are 7 years old and we are screaming with delight and holding onto each other as your dad swings us back and forth, almost flipping the hammock.
There is nothing I can tell you now that seems important. There is nothing I could say that I don't believe you already know.
"You could come to Boston. We could live together, we could--"
"No, darling. I couldn't do that," you squeeze my hand in yours, and I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry.
Now I am jerking the entire cafe table out from between us like it weighs nothing, I am using all my strength to throw myself into your sitting body on the opposite booth, and I am not questioning whether you will catch me. I am holding on around your neck and I'm saying Chris tell me I can let you go now tell me I can let you go.
"You can let me go," you say. Your voice is even like grass mowed to a uniform height, while mine explodes and stops and starts and makes me feel I'm drowning in the wave pool at the park.
"And tell me I'll be okay without you and there are others like you and you're okay and I'm okay and
say it and hold me? and"
Your hand has slid tenderly over my cheek to cover my mouth and I don't fight you. I am quiet as soon as you do this, as you turn my head to face you and you look into my eyes and you say Letting me go doesn't mean that you don't love me. And I nod and nod and nod and stand up and smooth my skirt down and put my money on the table for the waitress, and I am ready to walk away. And I need to go home, before I am too tired.
But one thing first. My hand feels clammy as I reach it into my bag and pull out a book that I read because you told me it was your favorite. It had witches and evil emperors and poison apples and I hate those kind of books. But I'm not ready to give it back. I'll never be ready to give it back. I flip through the worn copy until a piece of paper falls. It is soft from being erased and reworded so many times. I didn't know what to say. Of course I didn't. But I place it on the Vinyl seat next to you, where it stays, untouched. You won't read it until I walk out the door of this place, 3 minutes before closing. You get to stay after closing. You get to do whatever you want.
The softened piece of paper says this. And to anyone else it would seem like one final plea, but I know you'll understand:
I'll be the brake pedal beneath your foot when your boot slips off and I will pull with all my strength to stop your sliding car. I'll be the girl who catches your eye as the last bell of school rings, who you stop to chat with about economics before you finally head for home. I'll be your locker door that makes you late for class every single day, and slows you down on an afternoon when the roads have frozen quietly and darkly. I'll be the speed bump just installed, the impulsive rude comment that sends you to detention, the shoelace on your new snowboot that breaks and forces you to wear a different pair. Thank you for loving me enough to let me let you go, one year after I failed to be all of these things to you.
Suddenly I am alone. There is nothing obscuring my view of the bagel bins; never has been. I nod to no one. I sigh. The waitress we both would've recognized asks if I'm still waiting for someone. I tell her no, he isn't coming. And I know that that's the truth. And it's okay. I came here to say goodbye to you, and you attended this coffe-shop meeting, but only in my mind. The only way you could.
Back in my car, I flip through the case of about 80 CDs that I have in my car, and not one of them wants to be played. It's been one whole year, and I have let my life play loudly so I wouldn't hear you missing. But sometimes now, I like the silence, just to watch the road, and remember. Just to imagine I can still feel your fingers drumming on my arm. To be the locker door, the speed bump, or the broken shoelace that kept you alive.
You ordered espresso before I showed up. Did you know I'd be late? I'm always on time. But you always knew everything about me better than I knew it, and I bet you still do.
When the coffee comes by way of a waitress we both recognize, you say, "I don't come to this place without you, you know."
I say nothing for a while, though that comforts me. I wonder if you see anyone we used to know anymore, or if I'm just lucky. Or if I really was that special to you. I adjust my hat. I pretend to scan the bagel bins, leaning to see them around your body. I never thought there'd be a time when I wouldn't have anything left to say to you, but suddenly, that time is now. It feels like the words you just uttered contained the very last sentiment we have in common. That there are still places I don't go because they were ours and songs I'll never put on cd for anyone else ever again. There is even one shirt that I haven't worn since I last saw you. Do you know how I remember which shirt it was? It has a tiny hole in the left shoulder. It ripped when it got stuck on the inside of your car as I was getting out one night. I hate that car.
Today I was reminiscing about the time we mini-golfed and you tripped into the little man-made moat around a model castle. But I can do that on my own. And gossiping about who's gotten pregnant, who's finally moved out of their parents' house? You tell me it's not important, and you're right.
I lay my arm across the table towards you and close my eyes as you put three fingers onto my skin and drum them lightly. To this day, you are the most gentle person I have ever met.
"My dad went on a camping trip with his girlfriend this week. He had a better time than he ever did when he went with me and my mom... I'm happy for him," I say. You give me the sweet look that, through wrinkling eyes and a half-smile, says You can't fool me, darling.
So I breathe what tastes like chlorine, I disinfect myself, and try again.
"I get to play a little piano concert at--" You interrupt me, "Congratulations. I'll be there." I lift my gaze to meet you brown, brown eyes. There is nothing special about that color brown, but I can see your whole world inside them, and I can see myself there, too. With you. In a hammock together, we are 7 years old and we are screaming with delight and holding onto each other as your dad swings us back and forth, almost flipping the hammock.
There is nothing I can tell you now that seems important. There is nothing I could say that I don't believe you already know.
"You could come to Boston. We could live together, we could--"
"No, darling. I couldn't do that," you squeeze my hand in yours, and I am not going to cry, I am not going to cry.
Now I am jerking the entire cafe table out from between us like it weighs nothing, I am using all my strength to throw myself into your sitting body on the opposite booth, and I am not questioning whether you will catch me. I am holding on around your neck and I'm saying Chris tell me I can let you go now tell me I can let you go.
"You can let me go," you say. Your voice is even like grass mowed to a uniform height, while mine explodes and stops and starts and makes me feel I'm drowning in the wave pool at the park.
"And tell me I'll be okay without you and there are others like you and you're okay and I'm okay and
say it and hold me? and"
Your hand has slid tenderly over my cheek to cover my mouth and I don't fight you. I am quiet as soon as you do this, as you turn my head to face you and you look into my eyes and you say Letting me go doesn't mean that you don't love me. And I nod and nod and nod and stand up and smooth my skirt down and put my money on the table for the waitress, and I am ready to walk away. And I need to go home, before I am too tired.
But one thing first. My hand feels clammy as I reach it into my bag and pull out a book that I read because you told me it was your favorite. It had witches and evil emperors and poison apples and I hate those kind of books. But I'm not ready to give it back. I'll never be ready to give it back. I flip through the worn copy until a piece of paper falls. It is soft from being erased and reworded so many times. I didn't know what to say. Of course I didn't. But I place it on the Vinyl seat next to you, where it stays, untouched. You won't read it until I walk out the door of this place, 3 minutes before closing. You get to stay after closing. You get to do whatever you want.
The softened piece of paper says this. And to anyone else it would seem like one final plea, but I know you'll understand:
I'll be the brake pedal beneath your foot when your boot slips off and I will pull with all my strength to stop your sliding car. I'll be the girl who catches your eye as the last bell of school rings, who you stop to chat with about economics before you finally head for home. I'll be your locker door that makes you late for class every single day, and slows you down on an afternoon when the roads have frozen quietly and darkly. I'll be the speed bump just installed, the impulsive rude comment that sends you to detention, the shoelace on your new snowboot that breaks and forces you to wear a different pair. Thank you for loving me enough to let me let you go, one year after I failed to be all of these things to you.
Suddenly I am alone. There is nothing obscuring my view of the bagel bins; never has been. I nod to no one. I sigh. The waitress we both would've recognized asks if I'm still waiting for someone. I tell her no, he isn't coming. And I know that that's the truth. And it's okay. I came here to say goodbye to you, and you attended this coffe-shop meeting, but only in my mind. The only way you could.
Back in my car, I flip through the case of about 80 CDs that I have in my car, and not one of them wants to be played. It's been one whole year, and I have let my life play loudly so I wouldn't hear you missing. But sometimes now, I like the silence, just to watch the road, and remember. Just to imagine I can still feel your fingers drumming on my arm. To be the locker door, the speed bump, or the broken shoelace that kept you alive.