I use to love this path. I remember every which way it bends. It’s the smell. A subtle scent of seasoned spearmint on fertile earth reminds me of so many things.

Ironically, I couldn’t’ve had a better day for my trek—it’s the freshest day I’ve felt since Spring. The silence-breaking breeze I felt as I ate a bagel and read today’s newspaper on my front porch spurred the spontaneity of this hike. It is this randomness in behavior that I try once more to relive—something that only stirred in me two years ago, when I was in love. And with her memory enveloping my mind since breakfast, here I am, the ass, with a carrot dangling one fruitless step away.

I picked out my little house from a mess of better ones because of its seclusion. All I have to do is walk through some trees in my backyard to find a nature-made walkway into it. If I walk another mile or so I hit the highway. I have only crossed that road once, now that I think of it.

In the middle of both the day and our relationship, she begged me to take her somewhere. I didn’t have much gas in my tank so I figured we could get some fresh air in my backyard. I led the way through the barrier of evergreen trees to the path I am walking on now and we started our capricious adventure into the wild.

As the memory of that pleasant day enters my thoughts, I push it aside just as quickly. Right now I want to remember how it began.



I was in a grocery store, taking some microwave dinners out of the freezer, when a girl approached me with her shopping cart.

“Not a big cook, are you?” she jokingly interjected.

“Oh. No, not really,” I replied, remembering my activity.

She nodded to my selection, “At least you’re being healthy. This is Joey,” she said, pointing at the toddler sitting in her cart’s baby seat.

I waved and smiled at the child. I love kids. “You’ve got a cute boy,” was all I could reply as I looked into her bright eyes.

“Yeah, my sister is out of town so I’m watching Joey for the weekend.”

She had this clever way of speaking—a playful tenderness, like she was in on some joke.

“I was gunna say…it’s not very offen girls use babies to pick up guys,” I observed. “Now, if you had a puppy…” I trailed off, lifting my finger and eyebrows for emphasis.

“Hey! How’d you know I was trying to pick you up?” She said in mock-shock.

“It’s written all over you,” I said with the airs of a stately professor. “You know, body language is more dominant than speech in communication.” I pushed my cart a few feet away and turned back, arms crossed, to face her guileful smile.

“Oh, now that is interesting. I had never known that.” She paused, studying my face.

“Well, now—”

“—I’m used to cold-calling people for dates,” she interrupted, with dry sarcasm. She had figured me out.

I grimaced. My narrowed eyes contradicted my smile. I enjoyed her saucy nature almost as much as her fit frame and artist eyes.

“Well I can tell this is a new experience for you. You haven’t even told me your name.”

“I’m Jessica,” she blurted, offering her hand.

“Good to meet you, Jessica,” I repeated her name, solidifying it in my memory. “I feel sorry for you, so I’m gunna help you out with the next step.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets, pulling out a pen and a little notebook. I proceeded to write down my name and number on a torn bit of paper and handed it back to her, all whilst she smiled and pushed her brown hair back behind her ears.

She called me a week later, and it wasn’t a month before we took our first walk behind my house.



A girl I had taken through there before I met Jess wanted to turn back as soon as she felt the scratch of soft needles, but I convinced her that morning would be worth it. She stopped me about halfway down the first slope and kissed the hand that she was holding. I knew she didn’t want to do it, but I kept walking. A football field later and she was kissing me all over. With her forehead a breath away from my lips, she pleaded, “Let’s go back to the house, babe.”

It was no use. She was attached to the evanescent. We turned around, but when we got up to the back door I said I had to go work.

“Aww, why can’t you do that here?” she whined, squeezing my hand.

I slid open the door and watched her follow me in, locking it behind her.

“You kno’ why,” I flatly replied. She paused short of her next step inside my bedroom and looked at me with her softest eyes.

“Will you write about me?”

“I will write…what is on my mind,” I said, kissing her bronze neck. She always shivered when she wasn’t expecting it.

“I’ll be here when you get back. I feel like doin’ some stuff,” she said, retrieving her nail kit from the dresser.

“Well keep your stuff out for when I come back. I am thinking about a pedicure,” I winked, putting my wallet in my pocket and grabbing keys from a coffee table.

She laughed while heading into my bathroom. “I’m goin’ to hold you to it.”

I left, laptop in hand. I didn’t even know where I was going, but when I returned, it was dark and she was gone. It wasn’t long after that day that she packed her stuff in some boxes and left forever. Despite my youth, I felt it to be an impossibility to waste time with someone who wasn’t perfect for me.

She called me twice after that, and on her second try I answered. She was drunk and missing me. I was sober and I craved lips on my own, but I changed the subject. She perceived my curt objection, and bid farewell, saying we would catch up soon. I deleted her number from my phone and never talked to her again. I tend not to answer unknown numbers, and she never leaves messages.



I am disappointed in my distraction—I want to think about a different girl. Kneeling down to take a leaf out of my shoe, I return from memories. My senses regain their presence. The sounds of cars are not as faint as they were the last time I listened. I can hear the roar of a passing semi, and then silence—a reminder of my pursuit. The cool smells and quiet sounds from earlier have been replaced with the dry scent and crunching sounds of early autumn. The colors hanging in trees are starting to bake brown, gold, orange, and burgundy from the sun, and all of those brushstrokes are disintegrating with each gust of wind.

Onward I walk, hopping across a shallow ditch where a creek once ran. I pause, surveying the clearing of trees I have stumbled upon. A downed tree, with its underside half-rotten, looks inviting. I think I will sit down a bit.

I feel for the familiar bulge in my pocket where my phone resides, but I realize I have left it at home. Good. The constant connection with the outside world is not useful to me today.

Just now a fat black ant crawls onto my resting hand, and I bring it closer to my eyes for better observation. It goes on with its errand, oblivious—or maybe apathetic—to my presence.

After crawling halfway up my arm, I place my other hand in the creature’s path. It willingly transitions without pause, and now I am sure of his demeanor: oblivious.

Usually this inexertion would be pleasing after such a speedy hike, but my mind is starting to soften. It’s time to get back to the object of my excursion and head towards the sound of speeding cars. After coaxing the ant back onto the log, I pick myself up and move ahead. Another few minutes and I’ll be there.

I apprehensively shudder once this two-lane highway comes into view. Nonetheless, I am intrigued, watching and listening to a lone car drive from vanishing point to vanishing point. When man and nature are juxtaposed so closely, I feel so…awake.

A string of cars is heading my way, so I run across road, median, and road to the steep embankment on the other side. I get back into the trees before the rush of noise climaxes behind me. The crackle of freshly fallen leaves circumvents the sound of the moment, and I am back into a trance.

Ah, here it is. I am finally at the creek. My hands feel instantly clean in its clear, cold water. This water invigorates me when I spill it over my goose-bumping neck.

I walk a ways upstream to where the creek is pooled relatively deep in an enclosure secluded in dense trees. I find myself dipping my toes into the creek from atop a slightly slanted rock. This is where we stopped over three years ago. She said something to me here that I have yet to forget.



It was an average summer day, and I was sweating. Jess took off her shoes and socks and waded into the middle with the water a bit above her waist.

“Mmm, the mud is squished between my toes,” was all she related. I watched her slowly spin around for a few moments before I found myself joining her in the water.

She dabbed her fingers in the water and flicked them at me. I grabbed her close and kissed her hard. “I love you,” she replied.

I had heard her say that before, but this instance had a tone of permanence; it sounded as though it was to be carved in stone. Humbled by this, I looked down to the small channel of water that separated our bodies.

I thought of many possible replies to her, but I did not find one that could compete. Made cheerful by this unique experience, I looked up, finding Jess’ pleasant, unflinching stare.

Suddenly, her disposition seemed conflictive. I felt her emanating a new emotion. I stared back at her and concentrated hard, thinking, wondering why I hadn’t noticed this before. Then I realized her mystery.

At first meeting clever and playful, her eyes became tender and endearing, but it was their tint of sadness that I uncovered that day. My love for her grew beyond the bounds of romance. I would nurture her; I would never let her sorrow grow.

Twirling around slowly in the water, we kept our lock for a literary lifetime. The deep knowledge of what was behind those eyes made them shine in a heightened azure brilliance.

My eyelids finally blinked several times, and by the time I regained focus, she had looked away.

After our slow dance, we sat at the rim to rinse our feet off and put our shoes and socks back on.

“I think this is what it’s for,” Jess whispered, staring at the water.

I thought about her statement for a couple of minutes and hoped she would explain herself, but she felt no need to speak. It was something that was meant more for her acceptance than my own.



I am so stupid, I conclude, taking my raisinned toes out of the water. Now I am in a foul mood. My stomach turns with regret. I don’t care about the world around me anymore, I just want to go home and find fortitude in my fridge.

Shoes back on my feet, I’m turned back towards home keeping a quickened pace and pushing aside any lowly vegetation in my path. My anger clouds my perception, but these ignominious moments are brief.

As the highway draws near I slow down, catching myself from the mental tantrum I am in.

I see a tree limb a few feet above my head and take hold of it, making sure I bring myself back to rationality before I move forward again. Through my nose I take in wheezing breaths, as I am out of stamina from my brisk hike uphill. My hand reaches from limb to ground where a chip of bark has gained my interest. The bark’s miniscule crevices and pulpous threads mean next to nothing now unattached from its tree, yet I clench it tightly and carry it with me as I move forward.

Another minute of travel and I am amidst the roar of the highway. Groups of cars span the horizons. After a minute I am impatient, but a clearing comes before long and I walk across, dropping the strip of bark on the grass median. Another hill approaches but I am not deterred; my second wind has come and I relish the burning that my legs will soon feel.

A bittersweet breeze wafts the scent of fireplaces and the memory of the November before last back into my mind all at once.



On an unusually warm afternoon, midmonth, Jess and I sat on a bench on my front porch underneath a large patchwork quilt that my grandmother had made. I like to think she made it extra large for the kind of moment that I was sharing with Jess that day. A strong wind blew, piling the last of the leaves against the steps of my porch. On a stool beside me sat a kettle of hot water and a bottle of honey, which replenished and sweetened the supply of green tea in our mugs.

Like always, conversation was sparse, for the days in which we were constantly learning new things of each other were retired. The depth of knowledge we had of each other was satisfaction enough in our companionship.

Not long after commentating on the pleasant mixture of honey and tea she had enjoyed, Jess gulped the last, sweetest mouthful of her drink and set her mug on her armrest.

“We are like an old couple,” she said.

“Creaking bones and all,” I sighed. I pulled her closer. “I can see us sitting here, watchin’ our kids playing in piles of leaves,” I sentimentally replied, my eyes glazing over with imagination of our future.

She spoke, but after several moments’ pause.

“I don’t want kids.”

At first, I knew not how to react to this surprise, but a gut response soon came.

“We have to have kids. My daughters will be beautiful,” I stated, kissing her cheek and admiring my future offspring.

Jess shifted her shoulders and looked at me for a moment, studying my face as she did when we first met. This time, she could not find any hidden humor. “Not mine.”

I blinked several times before focusing back on Jessica’s face. I sat up straight, distancing myself from her petite frame.

We both thought that children were endearing, but we never took that mutuality and cast it in between ourselves.

“What do you mean, not yours? You think we’d make ugly babies?” I half-joked.

“I mean I won’t have any daughters. I don’t want kids,” she flatly repeated.

I thought of the many reasons why she would commit herself to such a decision. Even though she was a future doctor, I didn’t think that her work would come before life.

She did have experiences in her upbringing that would bring tears to her eyes whenever she was reminded of them. Living in a broken household with the meager happiness it had brought shattered childhood’s joy. Still, I could not find the logic in her decisiveness.

“How come?” I asked. I needed to know the exact reason so I could more suitably persuade her to change her mind.

“I love you,” she said.

Whether that was meant as a response to my question or as means to change the subject, her detached voice did not betray.

“I love you, too. That’s why I want to have kids. Why, really?” I pursued.

“I don’t want us to change. We are perfect right now. If we have kids, things will be different, things will be worse, and I don’t want that!” Jessica exclaimed.

“Changing is how love lasts! I am sorry if I sound like a marriage self-help guru but if we do the same thing forever we’re going to get bored!” I only half-believed this myself, but I still could not understand her irrationality. There was something missing.

Jessica stood up, obviously deterred, with her back turned to me.

She shivered.

Silence passed the next few minutes. I could be overly persistent at times, but I caught myself from speaking then; I knew it would only hurt my chances to convince her of her denial. Finally, a spurt of manic enthusiasm engulfed her, and she jumped into my arms.

“We can travel, move to a new place, start up a business on the other side of the world!” I had never heard her talk so fast.

My next sentence was critical. I was losing the battle. I could scoff, I could beg, I could compromise…

“What crazier, more interesting, and more worthwhile thing can we do than use all that we’ve learned in our lives to make the happiest, strongest, smartest kids we possibly can?” I knew it wouldn’t work, but it was all that I knew to say. I always said what I felt most, and I wasn’t going to stop then.

Jessica stood up, turned to face me, and got down on her knees. Her eyes sparkled with the propulsion of tears. Holding both of my hands to her heart, she quietly restated “I don’t want kids” with the permanence I had felt once before.

I pulled my hands away from her chest, grabbed the wrinkled quilt on my lap, and wrapped it around her shivering body. I stared into her eyes for a long time, for the last time. A million things to say came into my frustrated mind, but I refrained from saying anything too rash. This was the end, and I knew it.

I could have soured our finish with an amalgam of hurtful things to say, but only one thing came to mind.

“Well, I guess this is what it’s for.”

I kissed her on the forehead like I usually did when she cried, but the fingers that ached to wipe away her tears were clenched in fists.

I stood up, went into my house, and fell onto my bed. There wasn’t anything else in the world I wanted to do than to fall into a dreamless, amnesiac slumber.

Memories flashed across my closed eyelids as I heard the screen door open and close and quiet footsteps on my wooden floor. I heard the familiar creak of someone walking through the threshold of my bedroom, but I refused to open my eyes. A long minute passed, and the creak sounded again, leaving slow footsteps in its wake. My mind supplied the pictures to the sounds of Jessica making her depressed departure.

The next day I raked the rest of the leaves from my lawn, biting my lip every time I thought about what I had imagined the previous day. Jessica’s sister came and collected the last of the belongings of my late love. I carried Jessica’s computer to the car and closed the trunk. I looked briefly into the eyes of the mediator and walked away. I was in complete, silent self-denial. I had done the best I could until the very end.

“Don’t you want to know what she has to say?” asked Jessica’s sister.

As I turned around to respond I noticed the dying blades of grass that had grown in the crack of my sidewalk.

“It doesn’t matter if she says she loves me, hates me, or feels anything in between,” I shivered. You’re here now—not her—and that’s message enough.”

Taken aback from my cold answer, Jessica’s sister composed herself. Clearing her throat and taking a backward step towards the door of her car, she continued with the object of her message.

“Jess says—”

“—No. Sorry, I don’t want to hear it,” I interjected. Jess would have said something poetic. Something powerful. Something that would weaken the knees and shoulders that held up the despondent head of her addressee.

“Take care.”

The car door closed, and she drove away. I was back inside before it disappeared around the corner.



Now I’ve done it. I am sitting on the dirty ground. I am a wretch. Never have I gone through in such detail the memories of my departed Jess. The blur of the world around me is meaningless, made distinct by the inundation of sadness and the apathy of my sleeve. Sometimes, I feel good when I cry; I feel cleansed in the saline solution of emotion. But not now—not once in a long spell.

My crying feels more true than ever yet too heavy, too deep, too desperate—I feel displaced from reality. Only dreams bring emotions this powerful to life. Only when waking from nightmares do I feel the fear and desolation that I do now.

Making my way up the final hill towards the wall of evergreens, the tears subside, but quiet moans of sorrow still permeate my lips. Leaving the tears still floating underneath my eyelids, I use the back of my hand to wipe the accumulation of teardrops under my jaw. Through the evergreens I tread.

Now on the other side, I stop. I guess I’m not going to stop crying yet. The hammock that swings between two maples in my backyard brings more reminiscence of an evening we shared.



I felt insightful that particular evening, so I was compelled to put my mind to thought outside. Since walking was not an option in the darkness, I confined myself to the hammock for reflection.

Fresh out of the shower and dressed for bed, Jess slid through the screen door and climbed onto the hammock with me. I pleasured my senses by resting my nose in her flower fragranced hair and warming my hands on her soft stomach. Satisfied with this, my thoughts drifted away.

She could sense the distance in my moonlit eyes, so she remained quiet for a long time. Eventually, she spoke after I had shifted my uncovered leg, and in the ensuing conversation we were never more honest.

“Have you ever loved someone more than me?” Jess started. She knew the answer, but she relied on intermittent reassurance. I felt obligated to jest.

“Yes,” I tested. Jess thought for a moment.

“Are you having an affair?”

“What? I would never cheat on you.”

“No, I mean, am I your affair?” Jess was clever.

“How could that be possible? If anything, I would be having an affair with someone else.”

“Well, if you’ve loved someone more than me, I can’t see how you would let her go,” Jess concluded.

What a trap she set! I thought it best to regain my advantage.

“I got sick of her. She loved me too much.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m joking.”

“No you’re not. Truth is said in jest.” Jess’ playfulness had ceased.

“That rule doesn’t apply to me and you. You know that,” I said, squeezing her. “If you’re being insecure right now I really don’t want to deal with it.” My blunt honesty shone through, and Jess was happy again. It was an unspoken rule between us to always say what we felt, no matter the consequences. Our words would safeguard us through.

“What made you so sarcastic?” Jess changed gears. She never wanted to stop learning more about us.

“Don’t ask,” I dismissed.

“Why?”

“When I say ‘don’t ask’ I either don’t want to tell you or I don’t know.” I swallowed down a slight smile.

“Well which one is it?”

“Don’t ask.”

At this Jess punched me in the arm. My joke was premeditated. She knew it, and the semi-frustration mixed with her good humor always led to playful violence. I could never get over the determination in her eyes when she would punch me, as if this time it would hurt.

“I don’t know why you have to ask. You’re the same way as me,” I said. I had the feeling she had ulterior motives. Maybe she wanted to hear a sad story of my past. “What made you so sarcastic?”

“Pessimism,” Jess easily answered.

“Well I guess you have your answer then,” I acknowledged. I had never actually put my sarcasm into question, and I was pleasured to have discovered something new. “That begs the question, if we’re both so pessimistic, how are we still together?”

“Well, I guess when I said pessimism, I really meant realism,” Jess concluded. She was being thoughtful herself this evening. “It’s the outside world that would call us pessimistic.”

“No, the outside world would call you crazy.”

Another slug on the arm, but this time prefaced with a kiss. Joking was the same as agreeing.

“I thought you were being serious tonight, all philosophical out here under the stars,” Jess prodded.

“You bring out the worst in me,” I offered.

“No. The opposite.” Jess nodded once in confidence.

We both didn’t speak for a while.

Another half hour under the night sky and it was time for bed. Jess had released her hold on my arm and hadn’t spoken in a while so I figured she had fallen asleep. I lightly whispered ‘I will never stop loving you’, for my recognition only, and gently nudged her in hopes of stirring her from twilight.

“I’m awake.”



I stand next to the hammock, holding onto the rope that ties to a tree. My tearful disposition has turned into a solemn one. Now I’ve realized: she never came back because she loved me too much. We were too close to stay together. The summation of all I said to her solidified the choice she had made. But what was my excuse? I stayed true, I never stopped loving her, and yet I never tried to find her. Now I seriously ask myself, were kids that important to me? Would three beautiful babies outweigh one beautiful wife?

I’m not sure I can have one without the other. I’m not sure I can have either anymore.

Taking slow steps towards my back porch, I blink out a final, wise tear. I used to be a stoic.

I slide the door open, squeeze through it, and close it again. Tracking a bit of dirt through my bedroom, I head to the kitchen. Sitting on the table is the newspaper. I look at my watch.

Shit.

I hurry to take off my soiled clothes and replace them with a dress shirt, a navy blue suit, and brown leather shoes I have laid out on my bed.

I almost forget to put on some fresh socks in my haste.

My bed’s softness begs me to reconsider getting up, but I stand, grab my tie, and walk away. I pick up the newspaper, grab my keys, and head out the door.

Five Days Earlier

I have finally made it! A decade out of college and I am an official anesthesiologist! My debts will soon be gone, but first I am going to buy a BMW. This twenty-something two-door I’m driving is going straight to the compactor. I have never spent a superfluous penny, but I feel like enduring a momentary lapse in judgment this week. I have to call my sister!

Riiinnng.

Riiinnng.

Ri—.

“Hey! I was about to call you! How was your first day?”

Fun. They were easy on me. Do you want to celebrate? You better say yes.

“Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got the babies this weekend and Timmy’s sick. How ‘bout next weekend?”

Yes. We will have to... I will let you get back to the babies, so just call me later this week, OK?

“OK sis, love ya!”

Love you, too. Miss you, too.

Beep

I pull off the main thoroughfare and onto a quiet side street.

Half a block farther and I turn into a parking lot with open iron gates.

Home, finally—though, I won’t be saying that too much more. The movers are going to be here in four days. Four more days of climbing up four flights of stairs to my moldy apartment. I open my car door and lock it, turn the engine off, step out, and slam the door shut. I open the door into the building’s tiny entryway and check my mail once I’m inside.

Junk.

I am proud that I am not panting now I have reached my floor.

OK, little round key…

I bolt the door behind me and drop my purse on the coffee table. I pick up the TV remote. My thumb wavers over the power button.

I throw the remote on the couch. I look around the living room, seeing my favorite painting, “Irises”, leaning against a bunch of moving boxes.

Might as well get started packing, I suppose.

I think I will order Chinese first.

Yes, I’d like Orange Peel Shrimp, please…yes…that’s fine…bye!

The deliver boy will be here in forty-five minutes. Perfect. I should be able to get all of the nonessentials stuffed away by then.

My eyes dart across my fading desk and my near-obsolete computer. Hmm. I might as well continue my spending streak and get a new laptop, too. I will just pack this up for the Salvation Army.

This monitor will not fit in the box how it is so I take off the stand.

What?

A small rectangle of folded off-white paper drops from the monitor stand to my feet.

No…

I stoop down and grab it, my heart suddenly present. I slowly unfold the note, knowing exactly what I’ve found.

I knew you the first time we kissed. Your depth was palpable, and it was all I needed. You were my reality. You held my hand when I could’ve floated away. With Love

His words have this remarkable ability of making me cry, but my eyes had begun to falter as soon as I recognized the recycled paper. What are the odds of me finding this? And he said he couldn’t take my message. What has it been, two years? I open up the blinds to check the trees. Autumn is so beautiful.

Yes. Almost two years. The last time I saw him all the leaves were fallen.



On our last day’s eve he had convinced me to play football with his friends who were semi-professional athletes, as far I was concerned. We ate a loud dinner with the football crew, and we had a relaxing night at home in lieu of their invitation to the bars.

For the last time, we woke up at dawn together, fully rested and slightly sore. As he was pouring water into the coffee maker, I remembered the newspaper and made my way to the front door. As I opened the door he said ‘Hold on’ and joined me for the mundane trip.

He asked me how my day was going; I told him he was clingy. I asked him how his day was; he said he didn’t like busybodies. I punched him in the arm; he picked me up and feinted to throw me, calling me a ‘silly little girl’. I held onto him tightly and closed my eyes, for a moment assuming that identity.



Now my eyes are back on the note. His penmanship is perfect. He must’ve taken forever writing this.

Whatever.

I flip the note onto a couch cushion and head to my room to start packing my summer clothes.

I am thirsty before too long, so I head to the kitchen, fill a glass with water, take a couple deep gulps, and refill it. Now back to work.

My eyes drift over to the couch as I exit the kitchen and I freeze. I don’t want to but I have to go read it again. I sit down this time on the faded green upholstery of my couch, set down my glass on the magazeened coffee table, and pick up the note.



The morning after our first night together, I lied on his bed as he took a shower. I knew then he was more than special, but I needed a second source. There was this thin green notebook sitting atop his bedside table that beckoned my name; my curiosity of it soared ever since he had first picked it up and moved it when I came into its close proximity. I flipped over the blank cover and found a message etched on its back.

Marrow1

The first page was blank, and on the spiral there were dozens of perforated strip leftovers from all of the things he had ripped out. I started paging through the blank leaves.

After about fifteen pages, I ran into some writing.

“O, for a draught of vintage!”2it started.

It was an excerpt from one of his favorite poems. He only found solace in the words of others, no matter what raving reviews I gave to his own creative work.

The next page was blank and the next page was an original poem about a boy named Christopher who lived next to the ‘El’ train tracks. I didn’t get it right away so I started to read it again.

“What the hell?”

My heart jumped a mile in the air but my stomach stayed grounded when I heard his voice. He just stared at me as I closed the notebook and handed it to him.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. A flood of anxiety entered my mind. I thought it was over. But his expression of intensity faded quickly, and he moved across the room to put on some jeans.

A curious expression surfaced slowly on his face as he put both his legs through. His diverted eyes suddenly leapt to mine as he zipped.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Um,” was all I could muster.

“I know, right? It’s really powerful stuff. You sure yer done?” He offered back the notebook, but I sat still with my eyes downcast.

He walked beside the bed where I sat, gave me a stern look, leaned down, and kissed me.

“It’s OK,” he whispered into my ear, “I stole your panties last night.”

My eyes darted downward and I blushed. I had them on.

“Ver-y fun-ny,” I blandly enunciated, holding back a smile.

“That reminds me,” he said. He opened up his notebook and ripped out a page to hand to me. It was the only time he handed me something torn out of a notebook that didn’t make me tear up.

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Sugar is Sweet

And so are Oreos, Ice Cream, Chocolate, Pecan Pie, and especially (when I’m not hungry) You



I haven’t cried in months and now I have twice already today. This note is going into the trash.

I walk over to my empty trashcan and hold the message over it.

I can’t do it.

But I can hide it.

I quickly open up a drawer under my kitchen counter, set the paper on top of a can opener, and shut it.

Where is that Chinese?

Oh, still ten minutes.

Let’s finish the bedroom bookshelf.

I am blowing the dust off of the books as I remove them from the shelf.

Now that I think about it, I need to start reading these again. I read the spines of the last few books.

English Literature Anthology, On the Road, A Farewell to Arms. My eyes stop on this last. I pull it off the shelf, forgetting to blow off the dust and open it up to the first page.

I love you this much



Jazz music welcomed me as I entered a local coffee shop downtown. A note I had received when I woke up that Saturday morning said ‘You know the place.’

And of course I knew—when he felt like writing for ten hours straight he would go there.

He had never formally invited me to join him there before then, so I didn’t know what to bring with me. I decided on a notebook, a pen, and some research papers assigned to me from the hospital.

He sat against the wall, facing the street, but didn’t notice my entry. He was writing steadily in his notebook with a dictionary and an empty cup beside his non-writing hand. I sat down quietly in front of him and looked at his messy handwriting. He looked up, said ‘Hey,’ eyed my backpack, finished his sentence, dropped his pen on the page, and gave me a small smile.

“Been at it long?” I opened.

He looked at his watch and began to stare at nothing in particular. I suddenly felt pleasant. I pulled out my notebook and anesthesiology pamphlets.

“Yeah I’ve been here a little while,” he absently answered.

“Well?” I expectantly asked.

“Oh,” he said, coming back into my presence. He reached into his bag and pulled out a red plastic bag. “Here.”

He slid it across the table and I grabbed it before it slid off the table. I put my hand inside and pulled out a paperback book: A Farewell to Arms. I faked an annoyed sigh.

“Is this required reading?”

“Of course it is, and you will be tested,” he promised. “I went out for a walk before I started work and stopped at a used bookstore.”

I turned it over and noticed the slightly bent corners.

“Gee, a used novel…I don’t know what to say. Did you steal this from the library?” I looked inside the front cover and saw the note and kept quiet.

“Can you believe that was already in the book?”

I quickly stood up and stooped over to kiss his cheek.

“No,” I sniffled.



DING DONG

There’s my food.

“Thirteen thirty-eight, please.”

I hand him seventeen dollars and express my gratitude, which he returns. I bring my food to the coffee table where the book rests.



I asked him to tell me what the book was about, but he refused.

“If you’re gonna be my sugar-mama, you’d better hit those doctor books.” He grabbed the gift from me, opened it to the final page, and wrote another note. As soon as he set the novel on the table I reached for it, but he quickly pulled it out of my grasp.

“Now, now. Didn’t your mother tell you not to eat your dessert before you’ve finished your meal?”

“No,” I lied, shifting in my seat and reaching again.

He picked it up with his free hand, and I gave up.

“Well, I’m telling you now, then. And you have to promise not to break the rules.”

“OK, I promise,” I dismissively replied.

“You promise?” he earnestly asked.

“Yes!”

“That’s two times you promised.”

He handed the book back to me, and I slipped it into my backpack.

I read that book deep into the following nights until I had finished.



I have subconsciously started turning through the pages and now that I am aware of my activity, I flip to the last page.

See?

I can’t finish all this food right now, so it’s going into the fridge.

Ha! I forgot the bottle of champagne I bought for tonight. Better save it for when my sister comes over next week. Although there’s someone else I wish I could share it with…

Before I know it, a duffel bag is packed with an extra change of clothes, a toothbrush, the instigating novel, and the champagne, and I am walking out the door. As I lock the bolt I think about him and realize I left the note inside. I reopen my door, turn off the kitchen light, grab the note, and depart.

I skip down the stairs two-at-a-time and I giggle when I hear their familiar creaking noise.

When I shut the door to my car, I grab the CD book from the backseat and find the album given to me by him. After ejecting the CD given to me by my sister, I put in the local artist and turn the volume up a few notches. I am engulfed in the opening song, my favorite. His, too.

I still know the song by heart, and I prove it to myself by singing drunkenly.

I listened to this CD constantly the week after we broke up. That was the closest thing to self-mutilation I’ve ever done. But now, I’m smiling broadly in between verses. I haven’t felt this giddy since…

I can’t wait to see his eyes when he sees me. I am sure he will greet me with the same rare look of utter amazement he displayed whenever he let his insides show.



Like every other romantic evening I’ve read about, the wind was lightly blowing in a warm way. We sat outside a café at dusk—we had been sitting there since lunch. Another day of philosophizing. That’s what he’d always say.

“The only difference between a philosopher and a non-philosopher is the non doesn’t know what philosophy is.”

“Is that an aphorism or a joke? Because an aphorism has to be clever and a joke has to be funny.” I stared at him with neutral affect.

With his mouth and eyes wide open, he looked as if he had just been slapped. I fought off the urge to laugh.

He checked his watch and opened up his notebook. This thick one was his diary.

“OK,” he said in an excited business-like tone, while flipping to an empty page. “Seven, forty, nine, P, M,” he started, talking as he wrote. “Jessica, makes, a, fun, knee. I, am, relieved, that, I am, finally, rub, bing, off, on, her.” His hand made a dramatic motion as he punctuated the final sentence. “Can you sign this for proof?”

I giggled and yanked the pen from his hand.

“My-y-y pleasure,” I said. He got up and went to the bathroom so I flipped over the previous page to see what he’d been thinking about. I didn’t feel guilty this time—on the morning he caught me snooping he told me I could read his entries anytime—‘You are just as much a part of my thoughts as me’ he said.

On that page I found a short poem, which he must have labored over extensively. Every line had been crossed out or redone at least once.

Of all the things I wish from books

I wish I had more time for looks

The time to sit and look at her

And let all things around me blur

I turned back to the page I had signed and added my own little entry.

Of all the things I wish I had

I wish I had a brighter lad

Someone who’d sit and look at me

Instead of getting up to pee

He came back outside, picked up the check that had been sitting under a salt shaker, pulled out his wallet, and dropped some money on the table.

“Let us away, love,” he said in his convincing English accent imitation.

He picked up his notebook and opened it to the fresh entries. Nonchalantly, I picked up my purse and began walking away as he paused to read. I didn’t look back until he said ‘Hey.’

Before turning completely around, his left hand was guiding my lips to his and his right lightly tugged at the small of my back.

He slowly pulled away until our eyes could focus. His eyelashes and mouth muscles faltered, the telltale sign he was trying his hardest not to break precedent.

“I can’t believe I found you,” he whispered amidst a sigh.

I didn’t bother to correct him.



I love where I’m going. It’s like the land developer refused to go along with Land Development 101. Unlike the other sub-division developers in the wooded region, he sacrificed money for the peaceful beauty of the native landscape.

Only five minutes ‘til I can breathe in those scents I am longing to remember.

What is this? I can see an SUV in my rear view mirror quickly growing larger. He has to be going at least ninety.

Oh, no! Some unsuspecting person is changing lanes right in front of the speeder!

SCREECH

The SUV swerved toward the grass median and is rolling! I’m stopping.

A few other cars have stopped, too, but most are just slowing down to rubberneck.

Call 911! I’m a doctor!

I race to the upright vehicle, which is resting close to the oncoming shoulder with its roof smashed in.

I am only a dozen yards away now and the door is creaking open.

A man emerges with several lacerations on his face and begins to stagger away.

Sir!

He’s in shock—he’s not hearing me.

Sir, STOP!

The dazed man walks across the oncoming shoulder and into the first lane of the highway. The first vehicle stops just in time but the second hits his brakes too late and swerves off the road.

No.

I feel a slight rumble beneath me and then hear a siren augmented by familiar beeps.

“Jessica, Jessica, wake up, dear,” a woman’s voice pleads out of nowhere.

My eyes open but only one of them works.

“Jessica…you’ve been hit by a car. You’re being taken to the hospital.”

I’m a doctor—I know that tone.

I open my lips to breathe out—and in.

Travis, I whisper, loud enough for no one to hear.