A MEMORY

Turn the knob, light floods into the dim hall. Lazy hand creeps the doorframe and slides down the wall; flip the switch, the bright light ends. Through the blinds, a streetlight longingly casts shadows. You're in bed. Your clothes are on. Your breaths are patterned: long inhale, sharp exhale, pause. I run the tip of my longest finger across the thin gap between your pants and shirt before resting my palm flatly onto your stomach. My other arm works its way under the pillow beneath your head. I lay myself down fully with a long, slow breath. You smell of creme rinse and alcohol drink. I smile into your hairs.

Regular programming

If you are dreaming of me, that's okay, I understand. It happens sometimes: I catch the light in a particular way and turn into a sort of romantic black hole into which everything is pulled by the force of curiosity. You didn't know, you weren't prepared; all you could see was the glow of the event horizon, all you felt the tug of a dull hook beneath your sternum. You'll be okay, you'll come out on the other side unscathed, I won't do you permanent damage. You'll coast across on a hot cloud and land softly in indifference. And when you forget me, it'll be fine, I'll understand, I forgive you. I was an unforeseen deviation and I'm grateful for your attention. Please resume regular programming.

(conversation)

How many

You are trying to stay focused. His sentences are long and his opinion is important, but at the other end of the bar a woman with a beer is watching him talk to you. You fixate on her crewneck sweater and her expression: she is aging gracefully and you are not. You have missed his question and fill in the blank with a generous smile. She shifts in the corner of your eye. Her presence is destroying your composure: you become embarrassed of your blouse, your pants, your lipstick, your glasses, your whiskey. She smiles warmly at the bartender as the music changes and when you blink you become her. And now it's you, your mind muted after a long day, two fingers on the neck of a bottle, idly wondering how many bright beautiful young women have pickled in the salty validation of an older man's attention.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO DEFEND YOURSELF TO ME

Why am I saying this to you? Because I love you. Because I want you to love me back. Because I've spent the last two years building up this mythos of you and I don't want it to be wrong. Because maybe that's how love works; maybe you're supposed to want to be perfect for this person that you see as perfect for you, even if neither of you ever makes it. Because your opinion matters greatly to me. Because maybe I'm insecure and want your praise, and maybe I thought you were insecure enough that we could thrive on a feedback loop of optimism. Because that's how I think the world works: you can turn any situation into a fulfilling one by finding someone beautiful and smiling with them as the whole moment turns to shit.

A symphony

Let me record, before I forget or it becomes irrelevant, that all these things were happening at once: the street was outside the window looking in, Maria was frowning at the coffee machine, the pastries were basking in the evening light, the football match was in progress, a laugh was on deck in my throat ready to replace the smile on my face, the pink bougainvillea crept up the mustard wall and, shaking your leg, you spooned milk foam up off your coffee and back in, and up and back in, and up and into your mouth like a cat that got the cream. All these things were happening at once, all at once, and not, as they must in my memory, sequentially. I think perhaps they call this a symphony.