curious

It is a cloudless sunny day, warmer than any we've had since Halloween. When we met it was warm, the end of May, and then when we fell for each other it was June, and by July everything heated up even more, and for my birthday at the end of that month you had bought me the expensive perfume I wanted, and tickets to a concert, and you came to my bare new apartment with your measuring tape and a round wool rug and your air mattress in a blue Nike bag, and then a few days later you helped me move and brought your power drill and your level and some other tools and made sure that all of my windows had the custom ordered shades properly installed.

The level leans against the wall in a corner of my office, the rug is still on the floor under my sofa bed, the air mattress and the blue bag are stuffed into one of the back closets, and every time I pull the white plastic beaded cords to raise or lower the shades I remember your big hands and arms and shoulders--every single time. Is there anything left that reminds you of me that way? Do you still have my pictures on your computer? I had to delete yours, and it took me awhile because I had some in different folders and they kept popping up here and there. Do you feel anything when you ask for herbal tea and someone brings you Bigelow's "I Love Lemon"? How is it that you can hear Elvis Costello's voice without thinking of me, without pressing my number on your phone?

Are you really better off without me? Are things really a little less difficult for you without someone listening and saying encouraging words, without one single person in your life hugging and kissing you no matter what, saying "I love you?"

The night before Valentine's Day, you emailed to let me know you'd gotten my card, you'd kept your job, and you hoped I was well. You told me I had been a good friend and lover to you, that you appreciated that I had always been there for you. "These things will always be special to me," you wrote, as if it was over, really over, and there was no chance, no chance at all we could be what we once were to each other.

That was three weeks ago. I immediately deleted the message, as I had all the other messages you'd sent the past six months, as I had your photos and the Word file I'd saved of your profile from the dating site where we'd met. You know how sentimental I am, how I save things that connect me with sweet memories. But the advice books say that it is important to get rid of anything that reminds you of your lost love. That it helps you cut the ties and move on. So I shredded the Christmas card you'd sent, and I shredded the envelope with your address, and I deleted your address from my Amazon.com address book, and now I realize I should probably shred the page where I wrote your address in the back of my planner, so I am not tempted to write to you again.

Three weeks. And before that it had been three more weeks since you'd sent that last text message, the one that finally got it through my head that you really, really didn't want to be with me anymore. Or couldn't. Whatever, it doesn't matter. The results are the same. Either way, we no longer speak or talk or touch. We no longer laugh together, or cry. I can no longer think of you as someone on my "team," a part of the inner haven I turn to when I'm spinning and stressed and stretched too thin.

No, at the moment, I am not well, not particularly. I'm sad. I'm tired. I'm trying to forget you and it's not working very well yet. I'm here missing you and hoping it gets a little easier and wondering if I shouldn't think about changing my window treatments.

And waiting, waiting for spring.