Eleven: Desk

I am sitting at my desk and it is dark and I am writing. It is 1:02 AM, August 27th, 2015 and you are not next to me and you are not near me. At this point you are probably fast asleep, 10,000 feet in the air dreaming about a nice cup of coffee or a warm bed — or me — but probably not me. I always imagined I would be the one to leave, but here you are, about to embark on a new adventure that I am not part of and though I am happy for you, I am also very confused and very lost and all I hope is that you don’t forget me; I know I will never forget you.

I won’t forget this summer and this last year and these past three years. I won’t forget your backyard and your balcony and I won’t forget you sneaking into my room at three in the morning just to talk. I won’t forget late night Ragazzi runs and I won’t forget mid-sunday movie marathons. I won’t forget our long pointless car rides to nowhere — where we listened to 90’s hip-hop and ignored exit signs — and I won’t forget watching the funny people walk in circles around Greenlake — where they discussed the mundane but probably not very mundane but actually very important happenings of their everyday lives.

I won’t forget our times on the Ave foraging through vintage clothing stores and I won’t forget our treks to Magnolia where the houses have pools and the kids not much to do. And I won’t forget the farmer’s market; no i’ll never forget the farmer’s market and one day we’ll find a new farmer’s market and maybe it’ll be smaller, maybe it’ll be a grocery store or a fruit stand or maybe just a lemon tree but it’ll be our farmer’s market, just you and me.

And I won’t forget the bad times either; I don’t want to forget the bad times. The times when we’ve been upset and hurt and mad and couldn’t stand the other one. The times when tears were shed and passive aggressive texts traded. I can’t and I won’t forget these times because it means we once cared for one another; that I cared about you and you cared about me and we meant something to each other. These times remind me that love is beautiful even when it decides to rear it’s ugly face and reveal its flaws because it’s still love — and no matter what, love will be beautiful even in its darkest moments.

I was walking down 45th the other day and I thought I caught a glimpse of you and — just for a moment — I could smell you and hear your voice and I almost felt your arms around me. Almost, almost.

It’s funny, we used to talk about getting old together. About what we’d do once our backs gave out and our hearing went and our eyesight betrayed us. We talked about how one day — when we’re fed up with the people and the noise and the people — we’d move away from the city to a little town with not much to do and buy a little house with a little tree and a little white picket fence and call this our home. You told me maybe you’d learn how to knit and how to bake bread and I’d learn how to fish and how to fix the sink and how we’d live a very domesticated, very boring, very happy life.

And you told me it would be like we were living in a tv show, like we were figurines living in a beautifully set up, cooky-cutter world. I would work my monotonous 9–5 job and you would stay home and look after little Marcus and Molly. Or maybe you’d work the 9–5 and I’d stay home because we’re down to break societal norms. Either way, we would be very happy in our little world where I am with you and you are with me and we are both together.

It always went this way, the stories you told about us growing up and getting; all of them carrying the same romantic fantasies of an idealistic life. But that’s just what they were — stories. Just cute fodder between young lovers that was not to be taken too seriously. And I knew this and you knew this and so we kept on telling these stories, glorifying and romanticizing the ideas of getting old and grey. See, I knew I may not be apart of your future and you knew you may not be apart of my future, but both of us knew there was no harm in pretending.

So you told me we’d grow old like the cliché said and the wrinkles on our faces would be nothing more than the roadmaps of what we’ve done, where we’ve been and who we’ve encountered on the way, not least of all each other. It is 1:04 AM, August 27th, 2015.