From This Side of a Lost Day

The lights were screaming past as I pulled up alongside the curb in front of your place. It was pouring down rain. The dark gray steps leading up to your house seemed more stony, more austere than I ever remembered them. I gripped the steering wheel of my parked car and looked up at your big, blank door, trying to get the nerve, trying to build the momentum like I do in the morning when it's time to swing the first foot over the side of the bed. This was corny: Just a house plant, just an open invitation, just a last ditch act written all over me for you to read with a raised eyebrow.

February 14th, I hate that day. I hate that day of that week of that month of that year. There was nothing left of us so long before that. I put on my game face and pushed the car door open. Rain struck me: the comfortless, chilling rain that sometimes comes late winter. This isn't the refreshing kind; it doesn't nourish anything but the dull, gray pavement of city blocks.

We made this pact long ago, that I would bring your houseplant and rekindle our romance after rigor mortis had set into our break-up. It started when I took that orchid back to Joseph, early on in our relationship. You were so angry that I went to his house.You thought I was trying to rekindle a spark, maintain a connection. I didn't tell you it was all about ego. I was ashamed to tell you that. He couldn't get his orchid to bloom, but I did! I knew I could. Joseph was always so accomplished, so analytical, it must have killed him to see my haphazard methods bear fruit. That's what it was all about, I needed that last, little 'Ha!' at his expense, because, like you, he did the pulling away. But when I took him that flower, I was already so in love with you. You didn't believe me. You asked if I kissed him, if we touched. You were so unreasonable I screamed, "Okay, go buy me an orchid! I'll deliver it on Valentines Day after you break up with me!" I was angry. Now, I can only imagine arousing your jealousy.

But no. That feeling has passed too. It seems idyllic and distant, that time when you cared so much. I don't recognize the dynamic of who we were then. Not anymore.

I didn't make this flower bloom. My hair is soaked, and I stand out there looking up at your window, looking up with my feet like leaden weights and a heart that can't skip, or thud, or do anything except serve its physiological purpose. Sure, I've been missing you. People miss things. I still miss the blueberry candle I let burn down to a wax puddle the day I knew you were done with me. But I miss the Italian sling-backs that met grief at a barbecue, too. And I miss my childhood metabolism. I miss a lot of things.

What I really miss is telling myself the truth when I look in the mirror. I used to think silly, girly thoughts like, "Fabulous!" or "My hair is hideous. But he loves me." Now I just think, "I'm alright." and skim past the mirror in search of a towell. I don't look myself in the eye anymore. Maybe it was time to embody my inner loser. I'm a faded thing. I let myself hide, I don't look for dates, I don't look for anything except the energy to produce words on a screen. Yeah, I've been coming along that way; fail at life and strive creatively. This is what you left me: A desperate, creative impulse.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry I've become the kind of person who can be grateful for that. I know there's a blond vision who will be hovering inside your doorway. Probably an 'old friend' blonde, because you were always one for hating new people. She'll be the girl you told me you couldn't talk to, and didn't ever love; and I'm going to wonder, "How am I described now? How do I fit into your biography? What little stories and apologies do you tell her about me?" I don't give a damn about this girl. She could be a paper doll in the world that goes on in my head, she's that one dimensional. I can brush by her, and no significant look is going to stop me. But you stop me. I just don't want to. I find I can't bear to see you.

And that's the anticlimax that unfolded outside your door on Valentine's Day: Holding my silly plant, deep in the attempt to bear out our old ritual, I couldn't do it anymore. Every atom in my body gave up this fight months ago. That was all there was. I sat down in the back seat of my car with the February rain falling down, gulping down deep breaths like a frightened diver. If my brain could aneurism, if I could just get eaten by a shark before another moment of futile living could pass, then there would be argument in support of a merciful God.

Happy Valentine's Day. You say you waited, and I didn't show. Even while I wonder how you could possibly have expected me, I'm letting it go. You've already written your version, and my actions have already enforced it.There's a whole version of the truth you're never going to know about. I didn't get your messages for weeks. I kept them but skipped past, slamming my finger on the # key so hard it left bruises. When I finally heard them, imagine my chagrin that you expected me, that you actually waited, hoping I'd come! The old impulse to assure you when your message went on to comment bitingly on my alleged "hot date", or the fact that I'd "moved on so quickly", took my breath away. That old tide of reaction is so quick to swell up in my chest. I fought it down. You're a jerk, and you don't even know it. You never did. You're just so sure, you know it was some guy, just like I knew it was the blonde. It doesn't matter. You don't love me. I could say a million differing things, I've tried to so many times, but I can't show you my heart. I can't show you the secret script imbedded like graffiti on the walls of this faithful ticker, that declares your name . Somewhere in the space/time continuum, a girl is balancing breaths, fogging up a car window, scared to death to face up to the loss of you. You could have looked out the window, you could have seen me and engineered some kind of rescue; you could have coaxed this orchid to new bloom. But that's not what happens in real life; that's just the sentimental trash you read in a fiction story.