I love him so much. The thought rushes into my head and drains my blood that I feel dizzy. I swallow and look at my phone, so he won’t see my eyes well up.
I ask him about his daughters. His eyes soften. He replies enthusiastically. I know that distant air, that thoughtful demeanour when his thoughts carry him elsewhere. I take the opportunity to compose myself.
I should have avoided this meeting. Why was I bent on punishing myself?
All roads led me here. Some of it through chance, some through my intent.
The rain and the beach and the sweltering heat and the kiss on the shop porch at dusk and the indifferent crowds and the breeze that had never stopped to blow. And the crossroads—always the crossroads to confound us.
I was so much in love and so eager to start living. I thought my life was set. I loved him, he loved me, and nothing else mattered. College, job, family, everything would fall into place because it all spun on the base of our relationship: the trust we had in each other, the bond we shared. Oh, naïveté!
The tea grows cold in front of me. He drinks his, he takes a bite off the banana fritter, he talks, he asks. Not a cloud on his face.
I begin to sink again.
What had love meant to me, and what had it meant to him?
What was the point of suffering so much, every day?
I have taught myself not to look for meanings in events or actions, but I catch myself doing it every time. If only there was a meaning to things, we would not be so bewildered with life.
By the time we figure out how to live, the rules change.
Life is a series of figuring out until one day it’s over.
He asks me about my life, my husband, my divorce. Gently, afraid of ruffling, but caring, and wanting to be supportive. I dismiss it as I do always. I do not wish to dwell on it.
“I did something wrong, didn’t I?” he asks suddenly. He’s back on the topic without a bridge, and yet I know exactly what he’s asking. I know him. Oh, how I know him!
“No. No. You didn’t—”
“I watched you retreat. I know I didn’t try very hard to hold on to you. But every time I reached out, I felt as though you took one step back. I was young and proud. I didn’t want to seem pathetic—to be trying too hard. I was a fool. I mean—” He realises what he’s saying, its implications. I pretend I don’t notice it.
“I am sure it wasn’t important. Something petulant, no doubt. It’s in the past now. We don’t need to talk about it. We have both moved on,” I say with a small chuckle.
“Yes,” his face clears of its shadows gradually, as his eyes pore deep into mine. He finds nothing suspicious.
It was the baggage he had been carrying that he can now put down. Today he tells himself the past is in the past, and everything is resolved. He thinks he reads the truth from my eyes and my words. In another world I would have appreciated myself for my acting skills.
He could read me well once and he has forgotten it.
