She
could not talk for a day, for a project she was doing for some damn class. She would make
cute wincing faces every time I could tell she thought of something to say.
The hardest part of losing is the sense that you have been silenced, and it matters not that in this case, literally, I was. I threatened not to speak to him again and he dared me this time to do it.
I will call him. Sometime. He could be reading this. I don't withhold my words for lack of love. I want to be kind to him, and I want him to be kind to me. That not impossible. I operate on the painfully optimistic assumption that as the weather improves, it will get possible. Also, I want to be a better person when I see him again. I know he would laugh to hear me say that, but it's true.
Our memories are very convenient. They tell us what to want. I think of right things and he thinks of wrong things we did for each other. I guess I have to respect the gap in wants.
(Though I don't want to, not even slightly.)
I am writing down the pretty things I see and think. He may not have an interest in pretty things I see anymore but someday it will amount to a letter, and I hope to know what to do when I send it. If he tears it up, then I will know something, and if he does something else I will know something else to do. For us. About us.
Our memories are convenient. Once I complained that my feet were freezing; I tucked one underneath me and he covered the other with his hand, and my favorite part was not the fact that my foot warmed up immediately but that he didn't act like he was doing me a mad favor. Most guys would have said, "How about this?" He didn't say anything. I still, perhaps irrationally, assume there was more of him in that gesture than in the fact that lately he can't meet my eyes. I want to be right.