Dec 5. I'm on the train. You were supposed to be here with me and I'm angry and hurt. I think it's time to let go, to let go. I need to use the bathroom, but the one in my car has a sign that says "Bathroom broken," with an arrow and handwritten text at the bottom, "next bathroom, four cars." I bring my bag, evacuate my seat, and follow the arrow, through car after car, barely holding my balance as I make my way to my destination. When I arrive, the bathroom is occupied, so I wait. I put my hands in my pockets and realize my gloves are missing. I must have left them on my seat and I panic. You gave me those gloves, and I'm sure they're replaceable, you said you bought them on the street, but I am not ready to let them go. When I make it back to my original seat, the gloves are still there, waiting for me, and I am probably more relieved than I should be.
I try to sleep. In bed, I breathe deeply and try to become calm. Why am I this way? My body relaxes, or wants to, but my brain won't stop, won't stop, won't stop.
Dec 6. I'm in Pathmark. I don't even realize I have a ritual of texting you from there, until I am not allowed to. My stomach gurgles, and hurts, and the pain moves, predictably, to my chest, to my heart. The register is broken in the checkout aisle I've chosen, and I wait, and I wait. I keep looking at my phone and it betrays me.
Dec 11. I'm in a stranger's bed, trying to rest, pretending to rest. The man next to me is sleeping, and the man sleeping next to me is not you, but he has his arm around me as he snores, and he holds me tight like he knows me, but he never will. I squeeze his hand like I've known him for more than six hours, and stare at the window. There's nothing to see but I stare anyway. I wonder how I got here, and I wonder if you'd be upset if you knew I was here, but I think on some level this is what you want. I won't get what I want, but for a moment, the stranger gives me what I need.
Dec 17. It's been over a week with no communication and two weeks since I've seen you. I've taken vague solace in that my roommate has been going through a similar withdrawal, but he just got a call from his other, and as we wait for the subway to Manhattan, he beams, so pleased that the silence is broken, and I want to be happy for him but I'm a little jealous, and I see my own situation thrown into sharper relief, and I want to cry. Now I'm really going through this alone. Maybe you'd remind me that we're all alone.
Dec 18. I rush for the train, heading upstate again, and I remember, the last time I rushed for this train, I was coming from meeting you for dinner, the last time I saw you. And I remember making this same trip, this same weekend last year, and that you were with me, and that we were together, and I was oblivious of the storm, the fierce winds that would tear us apart over and over. We watched the snow accumulating from the train and maybe you'd known what was coming but I didn't. There's no snow now, no storm, only an eerie calm.
It's the silence that gets to me. I understand that we can't continue the way we have. I grasped that part quickly, but the silence bothers me. It bellows around me, echoing and intensifying.
On the train I see a woman taking photos through the windows, and of course I think of you. Later, when I get up to line up for the exit, I find a lens cap on the floor, and I look for the photographer, but she's gone. I put it in my pocket. She's gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment