When we get home we’re bigger strangers than we’ve ever been before. You start soaking the dishes we’ve already cleaned in the sink. I go to water the plants, but the bright red and yellow tulips along our windowsill have become dead, crisp pieces too bruised to use as bookmarks. We eat dinner in silence, with the orchestra of a careless fork scraping the bottoms of our fine plates. I ask if I should put on a record, after. Relax a little with the only jazz album we can both agree on. But you shake your head, I’m tired. I’m tired too, but I bit my lip from saying it.
You disappear to the bathroom and I can hear the water running for far longer than it should be. It’s only the sink, I can tell that you are not showering. I put on a record anyway, a low, mournful album that I used to love, and hum along. Do you remember the apartment as when we first got it? The way the chandelier looked so absolutely exquisite, its little crystal shards reflecting everything we had hopes for. I ran my fingers along the exposed brick walls, a dream I’d had since I first moved to the city. And the fire escape, the view!
I remember those first few nights when we sat outside with the relief of the summer nights dancing on our skin, and we sat with our shoulders and knees touching and each holding a glass of wine, the cheapest we could find from the store that wasn’t even truly a liquor store. The gallery was still unrealistic, a fantasy dream, but how we loved to dream. It was a sweet dream. We even planned the openings, who’d perform, who’s show up and wearing what. Could we believe that you were going to business school? Yes, for the sake of that, for making it come true.
I hope it’s not too much writing for one day, but I was looking through the fiction blog and almost forgot I wrote this. Almost forgot I wrote a lot, actually. But not to worry, I’ll be writing much more this year, and I hope you’ll give it a chance, too!
