My life didn’t become such a mundane affair until Oliver dumped me.
We used to go on adventures, Oliver and I. Every day was a new kind of journey – into the woods, into the cinema, into each other’s beds. He had a kind of danger to him that brought out a kind of danger in myself. He was a mess of life and color. He was foreign cigarettes in his breast pocket, chestnut brown hair and bright green eyes I often dreamt of, and ironic clothing that looked as though he raided my dad’s closet in 1975. Every night, he’d make music out of things that were not musical instruments and sing me to sleep.
I wasn’t sure what he saw in me, but I tried not to argue. People we knew and didn’t know and didn’t really care to know complimented our combined appearances, so we thought we were doing things right.
When my brother celebrated his Bar Mitzvah, Oliver was there wearing the yamaka my parents bought him and saying “L’chaim” to everyone he spoke to. When his parents threw a large Christmas dinner, I was there. Oliver in his sweater vest, I in my vintage shoes, anxiously awaited a long winter’s screw.
We marveled at one another for fifteen months. He’d say I had his heart raving. He’d say he wanted no other moments than those that occurred with me.
It was a drizzly Tuesday when at our favorite café, between drags, Oliver suggested we see other people. My chest actually started hurting. He kissed me goodbye, whispering “I’ll always be with you” before he walked out, never uttering another word.
Every afternoon from 2:30-5:30, I sit in the café; not waiting for him to return, but looking for some kind of closure, nursing a festering, still very much open wound.
The police wrote me off as a suspect long ago, so it is no longer odd that I sit here every afternoon, doing little more than smoking his favorite brand and drinking coffee. Not strange or suspicious—just sad. People pity my loss. No one knew quite what to say or do when his body was found strung up in the woods, missing only the eyes.
My room was searched, but never my attic. In an antique chest of drawers is a velvet box that once held earrings Oliver bought me for my birthday. The earrings are always on my ears. His eyes are nestled neatly where they once sat.
A piece of him would always be with me. He was right.
Don't forget to check out the continuation: "The Horrific End of Oliver Kanes"