The weight
of the morning sat heavy on his chest.
He had carried the bags of a dozen months of cohabitation down to her
car, and then watched as she drove off. It
is not often that one gets to watch their memories leave in such a physical
manner. There were so many memories; much
more history than the past year might suggest.
The two had been co-workers, friends, co-conspirators, mutual consolers during
each one’s breakup, but more than anything, they were the anchor that held the
other from drifting into turbulent waters.
There had
been plenty of good times, a few not-so-good, but nothing really bad, at least
not that he could think of, but then good, bad and indifferent are always a
matter of personal perspective. Whatever
they had had in the past was moot; she took her things under the guise that
their two lives could no longer be blended, and that both of them carried too
much destructive baggage.
The house felt
abandoned while a satellite radio station spewed a steady stream of music from
the 70s; he had hoped that old memories might quell the pain of the newer ones,
but Hall and Oates, Jimmy Buffett and Rod Steward kept lamenting about broken
hearts and lost loves. The music didn’t
do justice to the ebbing weekend. The
past few days had been spent smiling and laughing, drinking libations alfresco with
quiet conversations and intimate dinners.
There had been no unreasonable expectations; they both knew the visit
was to retrieve the balance of her belongings and to close the doors left ajar
when she suddenly disappeared so many months ago. It was intended as a happy ending, and in
spite of the weight, it had been.
The weekend’s
evenings, mottled by wine and the fatigue of unpracticed activities, ended in
bed together as always, and as always, without the intimacy they both needed
and were both too afraid to let happen.
Their time
together was over; she was gone and he set about straightening the house to
fill the void. It was an easy decision
to leave the sheets until tomorrow; another night with her scent to stir his
dreams would be good. But he closed the
bathroom door in a vain effort to ignore the barren vanity bereft of its collection
of creams and lotions.
Washing her
favorite coffee cup and placing it back in the cupboard, the mental echo of her
parting promise to visit again brought a smile to the corner of his lips. It was, as he knew, an empty promise; one
meant to assuage the sadness of their goodbye and not something to dwell on
with anticipation. Yes, there would be
phone calls, texts and emails, but like the oil and vinegar that tastes so good
together on tossed greens, in stillness, they can’t remain together. Their days were over, and like the waning light of a sunset, their conversations would soon fade into the stillness of
night. She had been right; he could no
more live her life than she could his.
Rikki, don’t lose that number, sang in
the background as he pulled a pizza from the freezer. Life again would return to wordless nights of
sophomoric television, meals eaten over the sink and a lonely, cold bed. If blame needs to be laid, the target was not
obvious. Pouring a first glass of wine,
he stepped onto the deck to watch the sun creep toward the horizon of
experiences not yet lived; he wondered where she was, and if in her heart, she
felt deflated or relieved. With the revelation
that she was no longer his worry, some of the heaviness lifted. He raised a glass to the distant vista, “To the good times past, and to lives not yet
lived.”
Rikki, don't lose that number,
You don't wanna call nobody else;
Send it off in a letter to yourself.
Rikki, don't lose that number,
It's the only one you own.
You might use it if you feel better
When you get home.
You don't wanna call nobody else;
Send it off in a letter to yourself.
Rikki, don't lose that number,
It's the only one you own.
You might use it if you feel better
When you get home.
