Memory is a funny thing. I used to easily recall his Cornflower Blue eyes and perfectly chiseled cheeks…that smile that would, in truth, be the death of me because it sent a rippling river wave throughout my body that warmed my entire insides. Now it takes a full 4 minutes before I can piece him altogether. The image of his face and body sitting in the corner of his linen couch covered in dusted sunlight, which I clung to for so long has faded. I hate myself for it, because it means I can’t even keep a promise to myself—a promise that I’d never forget the one thing that brought me such happiness. When you feel this happening, when you’re forcing yourself to put someone’s face together like a Mr. Potato Head doll you more or less want to kill yourself.
Nothing will bring his picture perfectly back to me outside of seeing him again. My greatest fear, that was once a hope, is seeing him in the street, or on the subway, or restaurant. I already know I couldn’t handle it, I love him far too much to ever see him again and not break down. I would humiliate myself trying to chase him down and hold him for eternity. I couldn’t bare losing him again.
I thought I saw him in my building the other morning and my heart nearly collapsed. I ran into the elevator corner and tried to stop myself from a panic attack. My breaths were heavy and quick…my chest moving up and down so rapidly that my insides felt like they were being shocked with an electric charge…sweat was pouring down my forehead and in between my breasts seeping into the fabric of my clothes like blood spilling on the floor after someone’s been shot…I got so worked up I vomited on the floor and just started crying. I hit a low that day, which I never want to happen again. What a friend once said I now believe to be true: you can die of heartbreak…it’s evident in the way my body reacted to my smashed hope.
Those comforting snapshots of him smiling at me, are now replaced by the smell of his cologne and Palmolive dish soap and the image of his dark denim overalls and white collared shirt hanging on the back of his bathroom door. I used to hate using his bathroom because the mirror was right in front of the toilet…there’s something so strange about watching yourself pee…but I loved how the cuff of his hanging sleeve would be right at my face and how I could smell his wrists and swabs of paint all at once. People try to tell you the little things mean everything and you take it for granted. Maybe you’ll be unlucky enough to realize that it’s the little things you remember about a person when the big things begin to fade, but chances are most of us are too self-involved to appreciate draped clothes and sweaty smells when you’re wrapped in the pleasure of them every day. I was far too worried about my family drama and surviving it all to even recognize that I was already 5 bad decision deep into our relationship and that there would come a time when all that perfectness would exist only as an imperfect memory.
