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Description
They said he was working, so I sat down to wait. I didn’t give them my name or make demands—there was no rush. To tell the truth, I was afraid that if he knew it was me, he wouldn’t see me. He’d stay in back and put in hour after hour of overtime until I gave up and left. He could do that. Maybe I knew somewhere that he wouldn’t—but everything I knew about him, all the memories of all the fights, and the hours I’d spent in his arms, had disappeared; the only foothold I had was my own paranoia. I’d made the long walk from the sunny broadness of the parking lot, down the narrow, darkened hallway where the air fights to breath and the light isn’t as fluid and pervasive as it should be. I’d felt the heaviness grow in my chest, because the intensity of my anger and guilt and anxiety was directly proportionate to my distance from him. My pulse was a radar. And I was afraid—of rejection, and that maybe I’d committed one unforgiveable act. I just wanted to see him again.

I’d waited too long to come back. When there’s no goodbye and no warning, the days stretch and grow. My week-and-a-half of selfishness had thrown the entire universe out of orbit. Hours had ceased to exist, along with all the human measurements the world was born without, and time no longer passed by regulation standards. One minute was longer or shorter than the next, they overlapped, gained speed, lost momentum, and really I had no idea how long I’d been gone.

There were several ways to play my homecoming, and none of them could work. I could be strong and unyielding—“This is what I needed, so I did it. Deal with it.” I could apologize, but then he wouldn’t want me back. I could cry, but that would disgust him. I could say that it wasn’t a mistake, that I wasn’t wrong, that he had driven me away, but that wasn’t true. I could tell the truth and say that everything was overwhelming, that I had never had a grown-up relationship that was affected by outside conditions like children and ex-wives, that I was young and stupid and I needed his patience. I couldn’t anticipate how he’d react to that. When I had gone, I was convinced that this was all too much to ask of me. That being with him would mean the end of my youth, and that he wanted to trap me. I didn’t want to waste my life by settling into a routine. What I realized was that I loved him and I needed him. And I was a stupid selfish little girl.

He worked in the medical examiner’s office. It had a little waiting room, as if to accommodate patients. There were even magazines. I sat, trying to fit comfortably into the hard curves of your standard metal-and-plastic-chair for an eternity before I heard him. The gentle refrains of his voice as it entered earshot, and his footsteps as the echoed gradually louder. I felt time dissolve around me, and there was a sense of nothingness. I was Adam at the point of Creation—feeling the air, the ground, seeing but not understanding, unable to grasp the concept that I existed. I needed more time to anticipate his coming, to plan my words, to mold my face. But then, there he was, and I was on my feet. The world spiraled back into place. I heard the receptionist typing somewhere to my right and found myself suddenly aware of blue tint the struggling light held and cast. All of that and trying to take him in. There was a look of muted surprise on his face—in his relaxed lips and focused, shameless stare. He held something in his left hand, a clipboard maybe, that he clutched with strained fingers. I clasped and unclasped my hands in front of me. Remembering him was no comparison to being in his presence and under the direct gaze of his perfect pale eyes. The lines of his face were fluid instead of haphazard and violent—I’d remembered him all wrong. I’d practiced my lines against a cheap second best, and was left unprepared and awestruck. He stared at me, and my gaze faltered. I couldn’t tell if he hated me indefinitely or only temporarily. I groped for words—what had I wanted to say?

“Have you moved on with your life yet?”

Description
They said he was working, so I sat down to wait. I didn’t give them my name or make demands—there was no rush. To tell the truth, I was afraid that if he knew it was me, he wouldn’t see me. He’d stay in back and put in hour after hour of overtime until I gave up and left. He could do that. Maybe I knew somewhere that he wouldn’t—but everything I knew about him, all the memories of all the fights, and the hours I’d spent in his arms, had disappeared; the only foothold I had was my own paranoia. I’d made the long walk from the sunny broadness of the parking lot, down the narrow, darkened hallway where the air fights to breath and the light isn’t as fluid and pervasive as it should be. I’d felt the heaviness grow in my chest, because the intensity of my anger and guilt and anxiety was directly proportionate to my distance from him. My pulse was a radar. And I was afraid—of rejection, and that maybe I’d committed one unforgiveable act. I just wanted to see him again.

I’d waited too long to come back. When there’s no goodbye and no warning, the days stretch and grow. My week-and-a-half of selfishness had thrown the entire universe out of orbit. Hours had ceased to exist, along with all the human measurements the world was born without, and time no longer passed by regulation standards. One minute was longer or shorter than the next, they overlapped, gained speed, lost momentum, and really I had no idea how long I’d been gone.

There were several ways to play my homecoming, and none of them could work. I could be strong and unyielding—“This is what I needed, so I did it. Deal with it.” I could apologize, but then he wouldn’t want me back. I could cry, but that would disgust him. I could say that it wasn’t a mistake, that I wasn’t wrong, that he had driven me away, but that wasn’t true. I could tell the truth and say that everything was overwhelming, that I had never had a grown-up relationship that was affected by outside conditions like children and ex-wives, that I was young and stupid and I needed his patience. I couldn’t anticipate how he’d react to that. When I had gone, I was convinced that this was all too much to ask of me. That being with him would mean the end of my youth, and that he wanted to trap me. I didn’t want to waste my life by settling into a routine. What I realized was that I loved him and I needed him. And I was a stupid selfish little girl.

He worked in the medical examiner’s office. It had a little waiting room, as if to accommodate patients. There were even magazines. I sat, trying to fit comfortably into the hard curves of your standard metal-and-plastic-chair for an eternity before I heard him. The gentle refrains of his voice as it entered earshot, and his footsteps as the echoed gradually louder. I felt time dissolve around me, and there was a sense of nothingness. I was Adam at the point of Creation—feeling the air, the ground, seeing but not understanding, unable to grasp the concept that I existed. I needed more time to anticipate his coming, to plan my words, to mold my face. But then, there he was, and I was on my feet. The world spiraled back into place. I heard the receptionist typing somewhere to my right and found myself suddenly aware of blue tint the struggling light held and cast. All of that and trying to take him in. There was a look of muted surprise on his face—in his relaxed lips and focused, shameless stare. He held something in his left hand, a clipboard maybe, that he clutched with strained fingers. I clasped and unclasped my hands in front of me. Remembering him was no comparison to being in his presence and under the direct gaze of his perfect pale eyes. The lines of his face were fluid instead of haphazard and violent—I’d remembered him all wrong. I’d practiced my lines against a cheap second best, and was left unprepared and awestruck. He stared at me, and my gaze faltered. I couldn’t tell if he hated me indefinitely or only temporarily. I groped for words—what had I wanted to say?

“Have you moved on with your life yet?”