If you thought that last bit was weird...
You'll be walking down the street one day, wandering aimlessly in the grey, pissing drizzle of a London fall. The rain will dampen your hair mistily, collect on your forehead and run into your eyes. You'll stroll along without a destination in mind for some time, lost in your thoughts.
And then you'll look around and realize where you are. You'll be standing on the corner of a too-familiar street. Everything will look the same, and so different at the same time. The sandwich shop will be gone, and the tobacconist will have a new sign. But one building will still be there, and it will still look exactly the same.
Before you quite realize what you're doing, you'll drift over to stand in front of the building. All the memories, the ones you don't think about, will come flooding back as you look up at the rows of windows above you.
You'll take a step, and then another, and then you'll be climbing the stairs
(second step right there where I slipped and I would have dropped the groceries but he grabbed me and kept me from falling hand around my waist)
and pushing the door open
(he leans against the door, smoking a cigarette and looking darkly beautiful waiting in a pool of yellow lamplight waiting for me)
You'll walk down the hallway, and here you'll begin to notice some changes
(the carpet is new, the rucked-up bit that I always tripped over is gone new paint on the walls covering the chipped patches and the stains but right there we were drunk and I sat on the floor sliding down against the wall and he pulled me up and kissed me and we were laughing)
but everything will still be so familiar, you'll be able to pretend that you'd just stepped out to run some errands or maybe left on a short holiday
(his face buried in my hair, body curled around me "We should go somewhere sunny for a few weeks. Get nice and warm and forget the winter." he always knew it was harder for me during the cold months but we never did take that trip)
You'll nearly break into a run as you near the end of the hall, automatically fumbling in your pockets for your keys. You won't find them, but that's all right, because he'll be in there and he'll let you in like he always does. A smile will break across his face and he'll open his arms and the door will close behind you in a chorus of missed and love and soft, contented laughter. You'll raise your hand and knock on the door.
And then the door will open and it won't be him standing there, it'll be some middle-aged housewife, soft and pasty-looking with a kerchief tied around her hair and a harried look in her eyes. Her lips will curve slightly in a polite, questioning smile.
And all the rest of the memories will come crashing back over you, what he did and where he is now and why you don't live here anymore. Why he is gone forever, and all the other names that are senselessly missing from your life.
You'll stammer out some excuse about the wrong flat, feeling hot and cold at the same time as the blood rushes to your face. She'll accept your awkward apology and go back to her housecleaning. And the door will close in front of you in a chorus of lost and alone and too many years that can only be forgotten for a few moments at a time.
You'll walk home slowly, and the rain will collect on your forehead and run down your face, mixing with and masking the other, hotter liquid you thought you were done with long ago.