Sometimes I still think about you. Sometimes I imagine you looking at my Facebook profile and being a little impressed and a little jealous that you’re not the one doing that thing with me, or being in that place with me, or posing in that quirky restaurant photo with me. But sometimes I imagine you being relieved that you’re not in my photos anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if you still do that thing with your chin when you look at yourself in the mirror. Or if scratch that inner part of your arm when you’re nervous. Or if you still don’t get why women like fake lashes, or if you still like to have that stack of books next to the toilet, just within arm’s reach.
I don’t even know what I’d do if I’d see you again, if we have coffee or something. Will it be like catching up with an old friend? Where there would be a glorious “Hi!” followed by an awkward hug, and the both of us would take a seat and stare at the menu for a bit, then order, then look at each other with half-fake-half-real looks of excitement and say, “So, how you been?” and then we’d patiently and politely listen to each other’s responses, constantly nodding in agreement (as if we always used to be in agreement with each other), and when we’ve had our turns giving brief summaries of how great our lives have been we’d proceed with more polite questions, most likely about our families or careers or mutual friends, because what the hell else can we talk about, right:
How’s your mother? Is she still X, and does she still do X?
So, what are you doing now? Still at X firm, still having problems with your manager?
Have you seen Y and Z lately? My, Y has gotten fat, right? (Both giggle). Can you believe Z has gotten married? My, he’s changed, right?
But, depending on if you’d had a few drinks or not, here’s where your personality would probably spill out on the table. You’d ask something completely ridiculous like, “Can you believe I was once inside of you?” and then you’d make your “sex face” and I’d say that you’re a wreck and that you should be quiet, and that we’re in public, and I’d quickly change the subject to something like, “How’s your girlfriend?” or “I don’t think my doctor would appreciate you talking like this.” And you’d smile with that seemingly unfazed smile, and you’d ask, “Is La La Land still your favourite movie? Is City of Stars still your favourite song?” And depending on my mood I’d say yes or no.
Then you’d ask if you could drive me across space, and you’d know I’d definitely say yes. You’d drive me to all the stars in my sky: that favourite tea place of mine, that favourite theatre of mine, that favourite bookstore of mine, that favourite park of mine—the places you took me when I was sad, the places that are glowing and bright and beautiful when I’m with you but are frightening landmines when I’m with anyone else: cruel reminders to stay away from what once was. I’d hate you for this, and I’d love you for this, and I’d pity you for this, because we’d both know I’d be using you to take me to these places so that I could cheer up, so that I could feel better, and early the next morning, when you’d drop me home, you’d ask, “Do you want to, like, have breakfast or something?” and I’d say no, and we’d talk about a few more things, and then you’d ask again, “Do you want to have, like, breakfast or something?” and I’d say yes, and we’d like, have breakfast or something, and even though I’m just making this up based on how much I know you, and I think I’d still know you pretty well (how much do we really change, right?), we’d probably hold hands, and then you’d actually, for real this time, drop me home, and we won’t contact each other for two years, but after two years, whether it’s by a secret spirit, or by the universe, or by complete coincidence, one of us would contact one of us, and we’d have coffee again at some place, and we’d ask each other about each other’s mothers and things like that, and I’d be innocent again, and you’d drive me to see my eternal stars.