On that cold Sunday morning, cold
enough so that it felt justifiable to stay in bed past 10 o'clock,
because it was soft and warm and electric underneath the blankets,
the blinds drawn against the reluctant grey of the late autumn sky, I
learned that the only woman I had ever really believed I would die
for was going to walk out of my life the same way she had entered -
like a sudden gust of wind that blows the screen door out of reach,
like a strong wave that finds you tentatively wading, stronger than
you were ready for, whose spray is so cold it makes you gasp.
She didn't even have to tell me, it
just occurred to me there, watching her smile and cry. I was
perplexed momentarily, twirling a strand of her hair around my index
finger - I couldn't think of a reason she might have to be upset.
Some mornings on my commute, when the heat is tuned just right on the
train, when my mind can't help but sift through memories fading at
the edges, I can still recall how her breath felt on my cheek, and
the particular way she used to place her palm against my chest. Yes,
she had those freezing cold fingertips.
“Of course,” I thought to myself
then, the realization only slightly raising the speed of my
heartbeat. This explained the little mysteries that dotted what I
knew about her, the desperately little I knew. Why she had told me
she was selling her perfectly functioning mid-2000s Honda Civic, the
car she picked me up in twice, in which we made love parked along the
cul-de-sac down the street from her parents' house. Why she would
change the subject when I mentioned spending New Year's together. And
yes, she skipped to the next song on the mix CD I made her when she
recognized “Boots of Spanish Leather.”
Well. It's funny and sortof pathetic
now, but yes. Of course.
The lump was building in my throat; I
was beginning to feel like I would shatter at the slightest touch,
watching the tears plot curves down the bridge of her nose, her
fingers gentle icicles on my collarbone.
“I'm sorry, I couldn't figure out how
to tell you. I'm sorry.”
“You're the only one who has ever
made sense, though. Don't you see it?”
She winced. Those magnetic grey eyes,
the way she would gaze at me, relaxed but intent, when we talked.
Fuck, she *got it.* She was so much smarter than me, more articulate,
more defiant, no trace of lethargy. She understood how profoundly sad
the simple matter of life is, and at the same time, how wonderful. I
had not, and still have not, felt more alive than I did during the
week I had with her.
“Where?”
...
“Morocco.”
Morocco.
I am older now, and my life has built
up a regularity and security that I appreciate, for the most part. I
do valuable work for people, and pay the bills, and walk my dog, and
vacuum my apartment once a week. I spend 36 minutes on the train on
weekday mornings, and when I can't shake those eyes from my thoughts,
when I remember how our bodies fit so perfectly together, I feel like
a little kid again, getting yelled at. I have to shift my weight
uncomfortably, and glance around, clenching and unclenching my fists.
In those moments, I'm quite certain that when the doors open on my
stop I'll run towards the eastern horizon, you can't see it through
the skyscrapers but it's there, and I won't stop, until the city gets
smaller, until the sidewalks turn to chewed up empty lots and snaking
overpasses, until my lungs and arteries burst, and I know I'll
ignite, and the wind will blow my ashes East, over the ocean, out,
out of here. To Morocco.
