a story i started last night

“In pictures you’re mine”

I had burned all evidence of him, or the twenty-first century equivalent of flames. I deleted the files on my computer and emptied the recycle bin. I kept one picture, in a hidden folder, but never opened it. I was safer just knowing that I had proof of him and I hadn’t dreamt him into existence altogether.
So as I lit my cigarette at the corner of 41st and 9th on my way out of the Port Authority I barely registered that he was in front of me. When the circuits in my brain connected his face to the ashes of his memory I stopped breathing. Consequently I started hacking.
The moment his eyes locked with mine I tried to turn away, run away. 9 blocks, I thought. I had a caramel macchiato date with an old friend. I took a drag of my cigarette and desperately pretended away those eyes, the pair that had taken me so many months to forget. For all the times he ignored my emails and letters, I thought he could just as easily pass me on the street, keep pretending I, or we, hadn’t ever existed. I couldn’t help wondering what he was doing in the city, as far as I could remember he didn’t even like it. Then I heard the voice I swear I had forgotten.
“You don’t smoke.” Like he thought nothing had changed in over a year.
“Yeah, I do actually.” I started to walk away. It only took me half a second to realize that I had started heading north instead of south. I considered going a block or two out of the way to escape and avoid him. Then I looked down at my watch and figured it would make me late for the coffee and catch up session I now desperately needed. I took another drag and turned around. I was face to face with that picture I keep hidden on my computer. I wanted to run, or hit him, or fall back into the arms where I had once felt at home, safer than any other place in the world. I wish his eyes would’ve looked through me, instead of deep inside of me. Already the memories and promises were hastening through my veins, the ones I spent so much time sweeping into the corners of my mind, covered in dust and cob webs.
“You weren’t even going to say hello?” His eyes. My stomach picked that moment to make a run at the national gymnastic team. I couldn’t stop the tears that started forming in the corners of my eyes.
“I didn’t know what to say.” It was basically the truth, leaving out the fact that I could barely speak. I finished my smoke and tossed it.
“I didn’t know what to say,” I repeated, almost under my breath. He pulled me to him, right there on the milling midtown sidewalk all the other people melted away. I began to cry full force into his shoulder. He held me tighter. As safe as I felt, I knew what it felt like to let go the last time, and the sleepless nights the time before.
“I have to go. I have somewhere to be.” I pushed myself out of his arms with every ounce of strength I had.
“Where? I’ll walk with you.” I wanted to say no. I wanted to run all the way to the Starbucks at 34th and 8th, where I could cry and be reassured that leaving him standing there was the right thing to do. But just like every other time before, my heart betrayed every point of my IQ and I nodded.
“I’m meeting Amy at Starbucks,” I dug in my bag for my pack of Camels, this was definitely an occasion for chain smoking. “You want one?” I thought I remembered him mentioning smoking some time in a past life.
“No, I’m good. Those’ll kill you ya know.”
“Sometimes I wish they’d kill me faster.” I couldn’t help it. I wanted to put out the cigarette I just lit on his arm. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hate him.
I believe the line between love and hate is incredibly thin and jagged. Emotional extremes have a way of spilling from one end to the other creating confusion and often violence, it’s the basis of why people are into S&M or end up abusing the ones they’re supposed to love.
Manhattan usually held an escape for me; the anonymity it provides was the only antidepressant I needed to be myself again, I had yet to find another place that provided that feeling. With him next to me it had no effect, like the two of us were in a bubble that blocked out the scents and sound I needed to clear my head. My head wouldn’t stop spinning, not even the nicotine could help. A million words were coursing around my skull in circles, and it was a race that couldn’t be won.
“So what are you doing in the city anyway?” Small talk was safe.
“I had to do some shopping, felt like walking around.” I didn’t get it, I know there are plenty of malls in Jersey.
“Oh, okay. Cool.” I was bewildered, I spent so much time missing him, now he was right next to me and all I could muster was “cool.” I couldn’t say any of the things that had been stewing inside of me for a year. I couldn’t even say anything remotely intelligent.
“Your hair looks good that color.” I couldn’t even look at him while he complimented me.
“Thanks.” I still love you. My face probably betrayed me for even thinking it. All the nights I spent wishing he hadn't said those words to me at all because they validated my feelings, and if my feelings weren’t valid it or reciprocated it would’ve been so much easier to let it go, at least that’s what I told myself. Now all I wanted was for him to say it, so that later I could pretend this was all a dream, an impossible fantasy that I could run into him amongst 8 million people on my island. New York belonged to me, and he was trespassing, that’s how it felt in the bubble while we walked down 8th Avenue.