The Two Of You

I do not see in her eyes what I saw in either of yours. When I stare longingly into them, as is the custom with these types of things, I am not greeted with the same sense of depth. She holds in her only a mere fraction of the beauty that you kept coiled so precariously inside of you. She carries no interests, no dreams, no desires for the future like you did, but she is a body to keep warm with at night and this winter has gone on for too long.

I recount to her the same worn out stories I once told you, but they do not capture her the way they did you. You listened so fervently, hanging on every word as if my tongue were a cliff and the words that flowed from it might save you from the fall. With her I only see the words bounce carelessly off her shoulders, not even making their way to her ears only inches away. I suppose this is partly due to my lack of desire to project those syllables the way I did with you. As it is, even getting them past my teeth is an accomplishment. 

She's saying something and I can't quite hear it.

"Later would you....coffee.....maybe at....parents...?"

I'm lost somewhere else. I catch myself like this more often than I am comfortable admitting. Drifting through memories or even just to what I might be having for lunch later that day. So it is with most of our days. The sunrise comes, absent of our attention since it is rare that either of us wakes before noon. Days that I emerge from the tangled sheets and blankets before her allow me a gladly welcomed respite. 

During these reprieves I allow myself a cigarette while I catch up on my reading. She wants me to quit, and despite her lack of interest in the ins-and-outs of romantics, she is bent on our attendance at every social function she can get her hands on. Consequently, I am hardly ever able to find the time necessary to properly ingest literature. 

It is amidst these fleeting, private moments I am so very reminded of you. Memories flood my brain and I allow them to do so because living vicariously through my own mind might be the only sustenance to my life at this point. Everything always seems so recent, the night we spent in my dorm room fumbling around in the dark, for the first time learning the shape and subtleties of each others bodies. Even though that night was years ago I can recount every detail with ease. How your skin felt against mine, the way you somehow stretched out comfortably on that twin bed enveloped in the sweatshirt that  belonged to my grandfather, a sweatshirt I saw you in so many times afterward. 

Today is not one of those days. Apparently we are getting dressed in order to go have coffee with her parents. While walking towards the coffee shop I notice a patch of hydrangeas and am reminded of how I brought you flowers when your uncle passed away. I intended it as an apologetic and somewhat romantic gesture, but you took one look at me holding those almost-wilted roses and erupted in tears, turning away and retreating inside your parents home. It was only after weeks of not speaking to me that you explained your hatred for flowers, saying that they were beautiful if only for a moment and so shortly after, crumbled and died, a waste of money you said and a poor representation of feelings. 

Your disappearances were infrequent but certainly not uncommon. Each time leaving me broken and confused, as rarely an explanation was given at the forefront of these hiatuses. It was only upon your sudden return that you decided to impart to me what had been troubling your brain,

"You looked at our waitress like you look at me."

"I was on a search for God. I didn't find him."

"Your parents don't like the way I dress and I'm not in the right place to take that sort of criticism."

Suddenly I'm peering over my cup of coffee, which was an unbelievable hassle to order. Her parents, as always, have chosen some ritzy bistro where only ordering the simplest cup of black coffee is frowned upon. Her dad, after minutes of contemplating his order, decided on a frozen, low-cal beverage. I can't remember what it was called. I wasn't paying attention. 

Now her parents are playing their favorite game,

"When are you going back to school?"

"Next Spring,  I'm focusing on my art right now."

"When are the two of you going to tie the knot?"

"Probably never. I hate both of you and can't imagine having you as in-laws."

No, that isn't right.

"Maybe next year. I'd like to finish school first."

"And when are you planning on doing that?"

"I'm not sure. I'm going back in the Spring."

Not that you were the only one who ever left. I can remember each time I ran away so vividly. Always for the same reason. I was terrified of you. Of us.

I would find someone else for a week, a month and project upon them every last insecurity of mine hoping they would be able to accept them the way that you so gracefully did. I was always wrong. 

We were just so volatile. I thought the fighting meant we were broken, but what is just so terrible about being broken? There was always a glint in your eye when you were yelling, pulling strands of hair out, breaking my possessions, slamming doors, a shine I have never seen in hers. 

She and I have returned to her car and are headed to-

A car. I told myself after you, there would never be another without a car. The countless hours I spent weaving my way down the darkest of back roads to make it to your home. How difficult the week was when one of my headlights ceased its existence. I do recall one particularly foggy evening. We had spent the earlier part of the night at my parents house, but I remember the drive more than anything. Taking you home, curving around each bend carefully, quick glances so as to retain the shape of your smile in the recesses of my memory. The way you begged to open the sun-roof so as to properly see the clouded night skies. 

I am for the first time today actually noticing her. Her choice of clothing so carefully organized in order to be simultaneously flattering, professional, and eclectic. She has had this look perfected since the day we met. 

The antithesis to you. Every stitch you wore was meticulously chosen at random from the contents of piles stacked from floor to almost-ceiling. I could hardly bear it. Mismatched patterns fighting one another to be focused on as none could work together to form a basic structure. 

She has us lined up for a dinner party her sister is hosting tonight. I think that's what she said. Maybe a sorority sister. I'm not sure if she even has a sister. 

I can only remember when I was still in school and all the classes I wouldn't attend because I felt my time better spent with you. Days spent in bed mostly, listening to records or watching some television show, limbs intertwined not knowing whose leg was whose, which arm was falling asleep, and wondering how it had gotten to be four o'clock already, whose turn it was to buy cigarettes.

I hadn't smoked in a week. She catches me biting at my cuticles, a nervous habit I've picked up since "quitting".

Every time I am able to sneak one in the comfort of those mornings spent alone, my mind wanders to days spent on the porch of my old house in our respective chairs or you in my lap, arms draped so lazily around my neck.

When did we arrive at this party? Who are all these people? One of her friends is trying to talk to me, but I am never able to give these people my full attention. I always feel smothered at these events. I can never remember which party is which. Who is who. All of them nameless faces in a sea of insignificance. 

I find a couch and sequester myself in the leather so as to drift away from nonsensical conversation about who's marrying who and promotions and-

Those nights spent exploring the city. Finding parts of our home town we had never laid eyes upon. The old, hollowed-out brewery standing for so many years vacant and untouched. Making our way up its rusty stairwells to emerge into the cold, night air. Drinking in the view, perched on that ledge overlooking the entire city. You plopped down next to me, afterwards saying,

"You looked like you wanted someone next to you."

Back home and she is already asleep. The king size bed we share allows for separation.

How different compared to the forced but not unwelcome closeness in my old twin bed we shared for so long. Nights spent reveling in the others stare. Records playing in the background serving as a soundtrack to our nights. My brain shifts uncomfortably to the last time I saw you.

She was out of town for the weekend allowing me freedom I had not experienced in months. I bought a pack and took a book to that coffee shop you and I wasted so many days in. It almost seemed out of habit that I ended up there, an involuntary reflex. I weaved through the maze of legs belonging to chairs, tables, and humans, somehow managing to find an empty table.

We came here so often because it was one of the few places left in the city where you could still smoke indoors. I grab what is my first cigarette in what feels like months and feel the familiarity of it between my fingers. Clinging so desperately to it with my lips I raise my lighter to it and glance up to see you standing over me.

"I thought you quit"

I laughed and looked back to respond, but you were gone. Another of your disappearances. I still wonder where you went.



It is morning already and she is saying something to me that I didn't catch a word of.