A Simple Chronicle of a Love Lost

It was kind of the sun to shine that day, surely it didn’t have to. The moon came out too, to offer the night sky an equivalent; a substitute. And I sat on the hard and uneven tar, wishing this moment away, closing my eyes tightly like a child in the hopes that my blindness would induce the world’s blindness and nobody would be able to see me and nothing would be able to touch me.
If Heaven knows everything, it didn’t let on; Heaven never shares. That night I slept soundly, peaceful in the quiet of my house, in the quiet of the dreams in my subconscious.
A Disney-like morning scene greeted me at 8:02, minus the blue birds plaiting my hair and the friendly mice bringing me tea. Everything was perfect and sunny so that when the phone rang abruptly, the phone always seemed abrupt, I hopped out of my white winter duvet and answered; unhesitant.

He looks at me as the waiter pours the Moet into our glasses and I wonder how I got so lucky, so quickly. I stare down at the ring, which shimmers like water in the sunlight, the ring which represents a life, a ring which stands for love and love’s promises.

My legs are the first to go. They buckle underneath me and for the life of me I can’t figure out why I am suddenly in a pile on the floor. They just gave way and I’m still holding the receiver; blinking rather rapidly.

His shirt is grey, faded to look as if he has had it for years; I know he bought it just yesterday. I am wearing red. I never wear red unless I see something absolutely unavoidable, something I will dream about until purchase and this dress is one just like that. Silky, a shining compliment to my recently acquired tan and my raven hair.

Next: my hands begin to shake, uncontrollably. The messages that are meant to be communicated from my brain to my hands seem to be intercepted somehow and I drop the phone into my lap. A few seconds pass and a message gets through, I pick up the phone once more.

We toast and we laugh, we smile and we smile and we smile. It seems like an obsessive compulsive disorder of some sort, all this smiling. The room is carefully air conditioned, keeping the heat of the evening at bay, at least for a few hours. The music reminds me of a movie, though I can’t remember which one; I feel I am in it, a movie of another time, because everything is as it could be.

Wait, wait, wait, I say. Liquid begins to form on my hair line; it is cold on my fevered forehead. I feel I need to throw up; the messages from my brain to my stomach seem to be working just fine. It feels as though my brain is oozing from my ears, but it is just the combination of perspiration and headache.

I feel his hand close over mine, an inevitable occurrence due to the romance in this restaurant, next he’ll ask me to dance and we’ll go to the middle of the floor and hold each other barely moving because neither of us can actually dance.

Words suddenly come to me, “nothing is lost that can’t be found again”, and I scoff. And then I scream.
You’re gone.

With these tears, I want you.
I long for you to be with me like you were that night in the restaurant.