It was an American coffee that changed her mind; that big cream colored cup, dark liquid steaming to the brim. That was what set her off that day. It was what sent the tears streaming down her face for the first time. For the first time since, well, since he had left six months ago.
She'd had coffees since that aggravating, upsetting Thursday afternoon. She had drunk them quietly, peacefully never thinking about chocolate eyes, rough hands, strong arms. No, she had blocked him from her memory right from the beginning. The minute he had dragged his suitcase out the door and slammed it shut behind him, she had forced herself to stop thinking about him.
At least consciously. During the day she threw herself into whatever needed to get done. She stayed in constant motion, flitting from one activity to the next. And if someone mentioned his name she shrugged, muttered it didn't matter and changed the topic. Most didn't linger on the subject in any case, were worried they'd upset her.
But she barely let him skim the surface. Even his name wouldn't penetrate the walls she'd constructed.
It was difficult at night. She couldn't control the dreams. He was always there. Just as he'd always been. Dark hair, dark eyes, haunted her completely and utterly. The dreams alternated: hot and sexy steamy or angry words or soft whispers of calm, of normalcy. The last always disturbed her the most, left her shaking, her false reality nearly crashing around her. Those dreams pushed at the construction of normal she had built when he left; made her realize that the normal she really wanted was him. But once the sleep cleared from her eyes, she pushed the thoughts, memories and dreams aside. It was done and gone. He was gone.
He had left.
And she'd let him.
She didn't know which thought was more haunting in the morning. But by the time she washed her face and brushed her teeth she was a shell again. Hollowed of all emotional ties. She wouldn't let him back in. No... At least not until the next dream...
So she didn't know what happened that cold afternoon in December. It was a little over 6 months since he'd left. It wasn't an anniversary, or a birthday... No those had passed without issue. There was nothing special about that day to remind her of him, of his presence. And yet while sitting in her corner stool at her normal bar sipping at her normal American coffee the storm broke. The shell was pierced and emotion rolled in. The walls broke. The damn overflowed. Every cliché you can think of. It hit her all at once.
He was gone.
She still loved him.
He was gone.
She had let him leave.
And they hadn't had any contact since that day.
He hadn't even tried to talk to her.
Then again neither had she.
And it struck her finally, that she missed him. That she missed drinking coffee with him every day. She missed his face, his very presence. She was staring into the dark surface, marred not even by a drop of cream... She must have been staring for 10 minutes before the tears snuck up on her and rolled down her cheek. She started; sat upright in her chair touched her cheek. Anyone looking would have been just as confused as she felt.
For a moment she sat like that, until her face pushed, forced its way into her consciousness, his smile, his laughing eyes, his dimples. Everything all at once. The feel of his hands, his body touching hers, of his lips hot on her skin.
A flood of images.
And the single tear became a steady stream and even though she tried to sip her coffee, she couldn't.
It was too hard to breathe and drink.
Because her breathe came in heaves.
She put her head into her arms, shielded her eyes, as if the action would stop the rivulets. She tried to shield her soul. But it was useless, the tears came anyway, soaked the sleeve of her sweater.
Her breath came in and out on quietly heaving sighs. She didn't understand how it happened, how she had seemingly lost control.
She missed him and there was very little she could do about it.
***
It was an ache.
An itch that he knew he couldn't, no, shouldn't scratch.
He stared at the screen of his cell phone not really seeing it.
Her image was already emblazoned in his mind. He knew every curve, every contour of her face. He knew the lopsided grin and the green eyes speckled with gold. He didn't need the picture to remind him. Even when she wasn't with him she was vividly present. The smell of olive oil and cookies.
She never wore perfume, she always smelled like herself and the recipes she created. It had always been intoxicating...
So the picture was useless. As was the number.
Hers was probably the only one he had memorized.
It was an ache.
His finger desperately wanted to hit call.
When he'd left for good, the ache was a constant presence. He had found himself staring at the phone once, twice sometimes even three times a day. It went on for weeks.
He wanted to call, hear her voice, and make her smile.
He wanted to apologize... just not first.
If she wanted him she would call.
It was silly, he knew. But he had always been the one to chase her down. He was always the first to give in, the first to apologize, to prove that he loved her.
This time, he wouldn't. He couldn't.
He wouldn't call. He couldn't apologize, not after so long.
It had been 6 months and she hadn't tried to contact him, not once. Blatantly, she had never loved him the way he still loved her.
Or she had done what she always did.
She compartmentalized and played at pretend.
She had always been good at that.
With a snap, the phone closed.
He wouldn't dwell. Time moved forward and so would he.
Even if the ache was still there.
***
By the time her tears had dried up she was late for dinner with the girls. She didn't want to go.
She had no more tears to cry. She was drained and numb and more confused than she had felt in a long time. It hurt to keep thinking of him, but he wouldn't go away. He wouldn't go back to the corner where she always tried to keep him, to where he had been banished.
She walked back to her apartment in a daze, a fog of images and memories and she couldn't seem to conjure the strength to push them back. Her hand was in her pocket tightly gripping her cell phone.
She had deleted his name the day he left. But she knew the number.
She remembered the day they had first exchanged numbers. It wasn't the day they had met, no he had waited. She hadn't even known he liked her, had not even entertained the possibility because he hadn't shown any overt interest. They had met at a bar while watching a soccer game. They'd spoken and laughed and he seemed friendly.
It seemed so long ago... They were different people then. Happier perhaps, more naive certainly.
He gave her his number when he asked for hers after the third time they had spoken at the bar. And although she had memorized it, she had waited for him to call. She had almost always waited for him to call.
If she was honest with herself she was still waiting for him to call.
Her fingers flexed involuntarily. She could call him. It was like a revelation. She could call him.
But she didn't know what she would say. She could call him, seek him out. It would probably be the first time...
Whenever they'd fought (which hadn't happened often) he had always apologized, come to her.
So this time she could find him, fix it herself...
But what would she say? 6 months had passed. Maybe it was too late. She missed him, had never stopped loving him but... 6 months... 6 months was a long time. He had probably moved on, found someone new.
She had tried... She'd gone on a date. One singular horrible date. And in retrospect she knew it was because her date wasn't him. Wasn't the one. She let the "one" leave... She had watched him slam the door and let him.
At the time she hadn't acknowledged that. She had come up with excuses.
She was too busy, too much work.
It had nothing to do with the truth. But now as she slowly put one foot in front of the other, she knew. She was still in love and she wanted him still.
She thought she had finished crying. She thought there were no tears left. The moistness around her eyes surprised her.
She felt the soft trickle of tears roll down her cheek.
She had messed up.
That last argument... Could she even remember what they had fought about?
She knew it had been a series of problems... things that she hadn't wanted to deal with. And then the explosion happened.
And he'd left.
And she thought he would come back even when she'd pushed him out of her head.
She had always assumed he would come back.
But this time was different.
And she hadn't done anything.
She had let everything fall apart...
And then she remembered what he'd always said
"Things fall apart....
What matters is how you put them back together again."
***
His friends didn’t understand why he wouldn’t date.
“Dude, it’s time. It’s almost 6 months! You need to move on.” No one voiced that she was probably already dating. That was silently said with glances.
His friends knew how loud silence could speak.
But even though he knew they were probably right he couldn’t. She was still who he wanted.
She was still his heart.
And he didn’t know if that would ever change.
For the umpteenth time he wondered if he should call or go to her.
And for the umpteenth time he told himself that he couldn’t. Time… It was all wrong. Too much time had passed.
And she wasn’t looking for him. She didn’t want him or need him. She had never needed him.
And he would have to adjust to that idea.
He decided. Next week. Next week he would listen to his friends.
He packed up his desk slowly, put the files away, straightened out the mess and then turned to his computer.
He opened a folder of pictures. They were all pictures of them together happy and smiling. They reminded him of better times.
He looked through them slowly remembering the where and when but also the feelings, conversations. He had always loved that she had documented everything. There were pictures of everything they’d done.
And now he closed the folder and right clicked.
It was over.
Looking wouldn’t bring her back.
He clicked delete.
But when the message popped up “Are you sure you want to remove this folder and all of its contents to the recycle bin?” he realized that he wasn’t sure.
He knew he should click yes. He knew that would be the intelligent thing to do… But, no, his hand strayed, clicked no…
Next week. Even this would have to wait another week.
On Monday. After another weekend alone. Then he would delete her from his life even if it hurt to think about.
It was over.
***
How? How? How? It was the chant that had started to play over and over again in her head. Originally, How did I let this happen? And now, How do I fix it?
She had yet to come up with a solution.
Calling… She could call him but at this point after all this time, she would be lucky if he even picked up.
In person? Maybe…
But she still didn’t know what she would say, what she could say to make it better.
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