On Richard: Now

The man sleeping next to me is not Richard. That’s the way it’s going to be from now on, for some version of forever. I find myself, in someone else’s bed, surrounding myself with memories of Richard as if somehow they could bring him back, the Richard I thought I loved, as if somehow they could undo everything that’s happened. Nothing will bring it back, but the memories crowd me regardless.

When we’d first get into the bed, he would hold me, put one arm around me, and I would take that hand and hold it to my chest. His fingers were freakishly large and it was sometimes a little painful when he’d squeeze my hand, but I’d stay there, on my side, intertwined with him, until he’d say, “Sleepy time,” and roll away from me.

I don’t remember him saying that he loved me, except for that first time, but I’m sure that he did, at least at first, I’m sure that he said it often. I try to hold all the memories that I can, but they slip through my thin fingers. The memories that stay are not the most invited ones. I don’t want to think about them.

I don’t want to think about Richard at all, but this first time, waking up with someone, this first time in years, it’s as if he’s the one here with me, and I feel guilty, because the man sleeping next to me, gently snoring next to me, is a beautiful man who has never hurt me, and I should close my eyes and let my dreams intertwine with his, but instead I lay on my back, staring towards a ceiling that I can’t see, and let my mind fill a bit with Richard.

I wonder if he felt anything like this that first night he spent with someone else. I shouldn’t wonder. Richard was not me, did not feel things the way I feel things, and Richard is gone.

I get up, put on pants and shoes, no socks or shirt, and a heavy coat, and go into the morning rain. I cross the street and stand in front of the building that used to be my home. The first night I spent with Richard was here, but I don’t remember that, or the last one, or any of the other nights I spent with him here before I left. I do remember him in my bedroom, telling me sad stories, crying because he had to leave me, and I remember him standing at my window on the morning of his birthday wearing just a towel. I may only remember that because I took a picture of it. I wish I could remember better things.

I wish I didn’t remember at all.

After my cigarette I go inside again, climb back into the bed and let another man’s body warm me. He wakes, a little, and smiles. I smile too, resting my head on his chest, and wait for Richard to leave me again. I moved to a different city, to a different life, but he’s the one who left, maybe the one who was never really there. He’s not here now and I close my eyes.

The man next to me is not Richard.

This is how it is, now.

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In May of 1998, I wrote a short fiction piece called "On Richard." It's always been one of my favorite works, but it's definitely fiction. Now, thirteen years later, given some things that have happened recently, I thought it might be interesting to take the first line of that story and use it as the first line of a new piece, this time purely autobiographical. I hope this is the last thing that I ever write about Richard, but I make no promises.