July 3, 2013 by Wayne.
When she was ready, we walked to the bar. The streets were quiet. Winter had just let up and the warmth was already finding its way back into the morning air.
We talked about what I’d do back in Malaysia. We talked about the guy she’d met on her recent trip, and the fact that we hadn’t talked for about 7 (8?) weeks and probably wouldn’t have if not because this was pretty much a prolonged goodbye, a final word, and how we had only three pictures together and one of those was a photo on her laptop that she’d deleted, and the way the brown pullover wasn’t quite large enough to look chic and not just awkwardly oversized even if all she wore with it were
Afterwards, while we stood at the intersection (already filling up with white vans and white men on fixedgears), I asked her to come back for a while, to step into my apartment for the last time before it ceased being mine. She touched my lips and asked me to walk her home.
We walked past the mexican restaurant, which in a few hours would have seats spilling out onto the sidewalk and a queue of people with coronas in hand and large smiles and topless men skateboarding past and the busker with a guitar by the basement bookstore with an arrow chalked into a blackboard propped against a tree with arms that twisted away from each other, reaching out towards the windows of the hairstylist or back out from the buildings, struggling to cross the stream of concrete and tar and steel into the rails that led away from this town – and with good reason. Why stay, after all? All the meaning you could pack into the place, you derive from yourself. Sure, we wanted many things when we came, but for all the heavens you could be, all I wanted was to have and to hold.
And though she had the broken feudal knowledge of the past, and my torn linen lining, and my purple buzzer she drew in circles with, and my kisses on her forehead and hand through her hair when she cried outside in the bitter cold outside the mirrored room, she could have everything but she would never know me. Because really, fuck, I don’t know me.
At the end of it, though, she drew close for a last hug and I kissed her on the forehead and when we pulled apart, she said: please, don’t call.
I sat at the table near the stairwell and watched people walk past towards cups of coffee and smiling girls and burritos and whatever the fuck.