I remembered her today—our last awkwardness, here in the city in which I now live. It was mid-May, and we'd finally made an official end about a week and a half ago to a relationship we'd both long known was going nowhere except down. Weeks ago, we'd planned to come to this concert by The Cure in New Orleans, and neither of us wanted to miss it just because the other was there.
The plans about where to meet and where to stay and all that had been made weeks before, and it somehow occured to neither of us to change them. So after the concert—a story in itself—each of us drove to her parents' house (neither of whom were there) on the Mississippi coast to sleep and recover. She slept on her old bed, and I slept in the same room on a cot a couple feet away. I woke up once around four in the morning or so. Had we still been lovers, it would have been a moment to revel in. She had kicked the covers off of her, and she lay on her side, curled a bit, as she usually did. The moon was full, and it poured in like water, like a million million shining silver tears, over the small room. She was so utterly calm in her stillness, so utterly rare, for awake she was an energy burst that could not be contained—ever moving, ever changing. She shivered a bit, and I reached out and pulled up the blanket over her smooth thighs, reflecting in the moonlight, above her waist, to her breasts. And I myself shivered, but not from cold, and I lay back down.
And my pillow was dry by morning.