“I
don’t like the cold.” That’s what you told me when I said I thought about maybe
living in Colorado once. Inserting yourself subtly into my future. Using the
same technique you use to hold my hand, your fingers slide down my wrist
slightly and you fasten your fingers into my empty spaces, like they belong
there. That feeling of belonging works for you, because I don’t notice your
hand in mine. One doesn’t usually notice the minute something fits together
perfectly. One notices the feeling of imperfection, when it’s gone.
Before
I know it I’ve taken at least ten steps and I wonder have we been holding hands the whole time? Did I initiate this? Right before my cheeks blush with the
embarrassment that comes with the accusation of being clingy I look up at you…
and suddenly any insecurity I’ve had is washed away and also, I have my answer.
Because you’re already looking at me and you’re smiling. That’s when you lean
in for a kiss. Quick, reassuring. A subtle, “no, that was me” and then you look
straight ahead and I am left admiring you, you and your ability to sneak up on
me in nearly every way. Within seconds, Colorado had been crossed off my
imaginary list of places to settle down.
Subtle.
Like
the way you became everything to me. I hardly realized it was happening and by
the time I had a chance to question your intentions, to put my hands out in
front of me to brace my fall, it was too late. I had fallen. I had not caught
myself and I did not have the breath in me to form a question. But you were
there, gentle as always, waiting. My eyes looked up at you for the comfort they
had always craved and there it was.
It
is only an hour before I will have to leave you. The idea of trying to pull
myself from these arms, to lift myself from this bed, to break contact with
those eyes, to let go of the hands that hold mine right now, is too much too
bare and I find myself willing time to just stop. Just give me five extra minutes. I close my eyes tight, trying to
pretend like I don’t see the sun setting. If everything is dark, I won’t know
that it’s getting darker. I press my head against your chest, this time in a
different kind of desperation. A desperation that calls out to you to do
something, to do anything, to make this stop and knowing perfectly well that
there is nothing you can do, knowing perfectly well, that if you could stop the
world from turning for me, you would. Knowing perfectly well, that I’m going to
look up at you and those eyes will be frowning, gently guiding me to face what
is happening, encouraging me to prepare for goodbye, subtle even in the most
depressing of times.
As
I enter the airport brisk air-conditioning hits my face. My hair flies back in
the gust and a chill runs up my spine. The image of you turning away from me, one
foot steps down off the curb, you look away, second foot. I turn away. There is
no way I could have watched you get in your truck.
“Do
you need help?”
My
eyes focus on an employee from Alaska Airlines. I’m standing in the middle of a
walk way. I’ve not even made it to the check-in desks that still sit five feet
in front of me. A woman with brown eyes stares at me; her gaze tells me I look
disoriented. I am. I don’t know who I am without you and I can’t figure out why
my legs will not turn around and run out of this airport and back to you. I set
my suitcase down, one hand rubs my arm, goosebumps from the cold air slowly
disappear as I try to answer the question. Why
are airports always so cold?
I
take my seat on the plane and think of you and how this aircraft is taking me
nowhere that I want to go. My head rests back against the seat and I feel like
I can’t breathe. An iron band seems to have wrapped itself around my chest and
is pulling tighter the more I think of you. I wonder if this is how
hyperventilating begins. But it’s not hyperventilation, its heartbreak. I can feel
the aching for you, an ice pick penetrating my chest and then melting, some
sort of sick way to comfort the wound. It hurts and the pain is cold, sharp,
and deep. I shudder, a reaction to missing you or maybe the plane is just cold,
they usually are.
I
close my eyes in an effort to stop the tears. As I try to sleep, a sharp pain
behind my eyes forms as though they are being pricked with needles; trying to
sleep without you is like grasping at a mirage. Every time I think I’ve reached
it, it’s nowhere to be found.
Focusing
on the twinkling city lights as we approach Phoenix, I clasp my hands tighter
together in an effort to keep warm. I contemplate asking for a blanket, but I’m
almost home. Home. That word means almost nothing to me. Home is where you are
and you are nowhere near here. I cannot deny the beauty of the sparkling and
the flashing, it looks like a city made of gold, but I also cannot deny my
sudden hatred for this place and the closer the plane comes to landing the more
bitter I become. This is not where you are. This is not where you are and
suddenly I can feel those pin pricks, and that iron band, and the ice pick. The
ice pick.
As
the plane descends I realize my hands rest between my thighs and I have curled
myself up into a ball. Goosebumps have reappeared on my arms and my teeth
slightly chatter. In the middle of Phoenix I am cold. In the middle of Phoenix,
I am alone.
The
wheels of the plane make contact with the runway, my eyes close one more time,
and I realize: I also, do not like the cold.
