Four Years Later
She
The rain falls thick and heavy. She sits at her desk and for the first time in four years, the words do not come. When you are in love, you are a disciple. You follow all your senses, you move in harmony with the forces of nature, you have little room for reason and choose to indulge instead in wishful thinking. But if you have been a lover once, you are transfigured - you are now a philosopher - asking questions, proposing hypotheses, searching for explanations, trying to make sense of those fleeting moments, memories and emotions, and attempting to assign reasonable conclusions to a thing that cannot be grasped.
She goes about her day - bathing the baby, combing her hair, watering the plants, rearranging the cushions on the sofa. She finds her way back to her writing desk, her hair in a determined top-knot and a cup of strong coffee. Routine - she relied on it to preserve her sanctity, optimise her time, and ensure order in her home and mind. She had forgotten that Love was often an uninvited guest with a mental map, all its own, most inconveniently finding its way back into your living room when it is least expected.
He came to her in a flash of lightning. In a dream that jolted her awake. She woke with the digits of his old phone number - one that he hadn’t used in the last 10 years of course, but her mind and her fingers dialled her back in time. This was foolish, she thought, as she cleaned under the sofa and the carpets that day. She cursed herself for accumulating all of this useless information years ago that could surface at a moment’s notice.
She tried instead to summon facts, search her brain for reasons that they had fallen out, and had made the conscious decision that their lives were better off without one another. A blank.
Instead, it seems her subconscious, like a precise marketing tool, was selling her the things it found she was more likely to fall prey to. Early text messages, the nervous anticipation that built in her belly like a Jenga tower, the songs exchanged as tokens of words unspoken, the lyrics never devoid of subtexts and subtle messaging, the sharing of inside jokes, the pangs of intense longing.
Love cannot be tainted by distance or time. It only drowns in concentrated hatred. She could not brew that, no matter how hard she tried. And even if she could, her best result may result in a heady cocktail, the effects of which would never quite wear off.
She asks a friend or two if this is normal. Are they feeling this too? They confirm that love leaves behind a curiosity that rears its head from time to time. What do they do about it, she urges? Nothing, they say. She nods in agreement, but the fog of confusion does not disperse.
He
The sun shines brightly over the glistening water. The sparkling car windows catch the light as they rumble over the bridge. A glorious day. He crushes the tissue paper in his fist and aims it at the rusted bin. It misses. He grunts unhappily as he swallows the last of his sandwich. How did he get here?
He knows, of course. He was strategic, even though he would never acknowledge it. He weighed every aspect of his life with expert precision. What others deemed carelessness or callousness was always the result of his calculation. When he changed his mind about her, he knew things would change. He was counting on it. He did not want a serious girlfriend holding him down when he wanted to travel the world, embark on adventures that were only afforded to singles. He wanted to eat out of plastic plates, drink cheap beer, and sleep in beds he was not obliged to return to. He wanted to become someone significant, not just a significant other. This was the life he wanted. One that he consciously chose.
He lifts himself off the wooden park bench and walks away towards the steel and concrete tower that had become his new home, stopping only to pick up the stray balled up paper and discard it properly in the bin.
She
She woke up early, when all the world was quiet. To everyone, it seemed like responsibility. But these stolen surreptitious moments were a parallel reality. Or a portal to her past.
It all began with that horrid dream. A few days later, she had discovered an old diary as she cleaned out the guest room. Every morning after that, she read old emails, old text messages, the tender words inscribed in the first pages of every book he had given her. She looked for clues that the relationship meant something to him, wishing there was some part of him that held onto her like she held on to these relics of their past. A soundtrack of their favourite songs played in her mind and sometimes on her iPad as she dissected each item with the precision of a forensic scientist.
He
She would never be his again. The finality of it should have discouraged him but it spurred his interest. There was too much distance between them. They had also stacked years of silence, misunderstanding and hurt in the miles that separated them. Plus, didn’t she belong to someone else now? And yet. He could hear her laugh in the shower or smell her perfume while he walked in the park and it would drive him insane. Why was this coming back to him with such a force? The contours of her face were blurred by time and the stubborn will to forget.
He should never have clicked on that link. An innocent forward that led to her writing. He didn’t read a word of it. Instead, he had gazed at the portrait that accompanied the article. An awkward smile - he used to joke that this was her ‘photoface’. She would respond by punching him in the arm. Then she would smile wide, her eyes crinkling and her chin turned upward.
Just thinking of it now was like taking a punch to the gut.
She
Even while we were together, his heart was set on other things. He’s not thinking of me, I mustn't think of him either.
She deletes her internet history.
He
It is a cool night. He sits with his friends at a restaurant overlooking the lake. Spurts of chatter and music fill the air as the boats pass. They’ve ordered a round of beers, fish sticks and french fries. He tells stories animatedly and everyone is in splits. He is always so good with casual conversation. His anecdotes are witty, his comic timing is excellent and his smile is endearing. He lights a cigarette and breathes in deep.
Is she thinking of me somewhere?
He thought of all the times he had thought of her. How it would previously inspire poetry and emails and phone calls that were heavy with romance. How it now evaporated without the gravity of her reciprocated thoughts to lend it weight.
He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it hard.
I wish I could forget her.
I wish she had not forgotten me.
She
She goes to bed. Another perfectly marvellous day filled with meaningful things.
Perhaps tomorrow would be one of the days his name did not flash unwanted across social media or a cab window or in her deepest slumber.
She picks up a book on something complicated. She latches on to the difficult words, repeats them in her head, hoping they will drown out any recollection of things she must not dwell on.
He
He is with another woman at a cafe. A woman who is breathtakingly beautiful - luminous even. This woman is also intelligent - she speaks of things that are complex, pressing, captivating. And yet his mind, stubborn at the worst moments, wanders away to his past. He wants nothing more than to hold her hand and be talking about something silly. No, he must not think of her. This woman. He must focus on this woman - who, he realises, is both all he’s got and nothing at all.
He tells himself that he could love this woman. Maybe. He would have to try. He asks if she would like to go back to his room. The woman agrees.
She
She wakes up in a cold sweat. These dreams are unacceptable, she chides herself, walking to the bathroom and dousing her face in ice-cold water.
She sits on the toilet, her heart beating rebelliously, and navigates through her contacts to the one she had blocked years ago. She clicks tentatively and gazes upon his carefully curated feed. He is both wildly familiar and terrifyingly unknown - a curious mix of intimacy and mystery.
She wants to remember the betrayal, the anger, the violations and her mind, like a haphazard employee, hurriedly and feebly assembles the facts. But what can be done of her heart - who eagerly presents useless information such as the softness of his lips, his sarcastic grin and his strong capable hands? She dismisses them both in frustration, navigating backwards, and returning to bed.
She must remember to forget. There is no other way, she tells herself.
He
He sits in bed while the woman sleeps beside him.
He types out a message in his stupor. About love, soulmates, finding their way back together. He deletes all of it.
He writes instead angrily of her determination to haunt him, that she should have stayed despite him pushing her away, that she should not have so quickly rushed into the arms of another, that she should have understood him when he barely understood himself. He deleted all of it.
‘I’m sorry’, he types, before erasing that too.
It is too late. Too late.
He sets the phone down on the bed and holds his face in his palms.
They
They both lay in their beds that night as the moon hung silently witnessing the shifting of the tides in their hearts, the guilt and longing coursing through their bodies, the memories that had wrapped themselves around reason, suffocating the sense out of it. It was no use to summon any courage, for it could very well become crass, given the circumstances.
All the while, love lies in the corner in a heap of ember and wood. Always able to reignite at the slightest touch of heat. Neither will ever venture too close for fear of setting themselves on fire.
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(image: Long Empty Road; Wix media library)
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