It is just past seven pm and it’s raining outside. I am sitting in my living room surrounded by orange pillows, tall candles in hand painted jars, books about planning spontaneous holidays, an old cd player, a paper hat from last night’s dinner party and a sympathy card from a well meaning friend.
I am sipping on it slowly, just like he had taught me. I am slightly overcome by its subtle, sweet taste. It reminds me of flowers in a meadow and walking barefoot on wet grass. Eyes closed, I breathe in its flavour and fullness before each sip I take. I peer through the glass bottle and watch my imagination turning dark green.
The email had said she loved him.
I smirkingly wonder if she knows that he has a tiny birthmark on his left foot, that he loves pumpkin ravioli with fresh basil and that he stops snoring when touched on his belly.
But looking within, it’s easy to see that envy is nothing more than an attempted substitute for raw and quivering sadness.
I think about why it had taken us so long to look through the fantasy beings we had become for one another. I think about why I had chosen not to notice that his laughter had lost its wholehearted tinkle. Why hadn’t we acknowledged the fact that both of us had taken off on journeys of our own, and neither of us had left behind a little post-it note on the fridge explaining why and where we were going.
The thing about letting your tears flow freely is that if you let them flow long enough, not only do they stop of their own accord, but they also leave you with unusual clarity and sometimes a sense of wonder.
This time, I am left wondering about the beginning that is hidden in this seeming end. Because I have come to realise that all endings are full of surprising beginnings.
The phone rings. I say yes and also suggest the restaurant.
I am looking forward to meeting a new person today.
