It’s one of those moments, a single melancholy moment that really, really changes you. It’s the way she would pull on my pea coat or the way she would catch the wit that I threw at her. I would raise an eyebrow and she’d squish her nose. Everyone was our enemy, a possible client for our judgment. It was simple and foolish, but it was us. We contained a piece of truth that we only knew. While, I’m sure anyone who has ever loved would say the same thing, we were different than all other lovers that came before us.
She held my hand. Why she held my hand, God only knows. It wasn’t as if it made letting go any easier. I didn’t get to gasp for air after the blow being delivered to my ego; I just hung there, in utter disbelief. A noose dangled around the neck of my still slowly beating heart.
Everything that was apart of us was part of the cultures senses. We were the smell of peppermint gum after smoking my foreign blend. We were the sound of children laughing as we made faces at them on the train. We were the feel of woolen coats and knit hats that covered our shivering heads. We were the taste of cheap red wine; the burn and tickle all at once. We were the sight of dusk, golden and bold. We were free and contained, broken and whole. I was her bruise to her hit and she was my nibble to my kiss.
Her hand left mine faster than it had been introduced. She left me, sitting there, jaw practically dragging on the illumine table. There was no yelling, no tears fell, and my face didn’t flush the way it used to. She left me with the bill and a bucket list of emotions that occupied most of the capacity of my brain. Functioning isn’t about looking like everything is fine. Functioning is about keeping my composure enough that I don’t cry myself to sleep every night. It’s about being able to go out with friends without having to think of her every second of the night. Functioning is about not writing her, calling her or texting her. It’s just about surviving.
She held my hand. I wish she hadn’t.