199998

We were sitting in some diner. Some damned diner that sat us past midnight. If I had been a doctor, which I was not then, and now, am not, I would have heard your heart beating irregularly, extracurricularly, spectacularly sadly, and beautifully, across that orange, vinyl wasteland.

"So now what?"

Your voice rose, a song, and I hung myself on that question mark.

In therapy, you repeated that question so much that Dr. Weisman had rolled her eyes, clapped her hands, and taken a long vacation to South Africa. Apartheid was easier to end than our relationship.

If I had opened my mouth, three little words might have tripped out truthfully.

I might have said "I love you."

Or, to put it another way, "It is over."

Again: "I can't deal."

Three truths trilling on the tip of my tongue, and all I could think of was your name.

I loved your name in blue inky hearts that I hid in the margins of my notes. Your name, esses lassoing on the end of neon-pink-post-its declaring your love at lunchtime.

Alyssa, downstairs in my striped shirt, lips red like Kool-Aid.

Alyssa, in a silk dress.

Alyssa, a sigh, a silence.

I watch myself get up and go.