The apartment

 The night before I went back to Maine we spent in your apartment in Evansville, lying together, naked, being. It was sensual and not sensual. I would soon be married and you would be off to Europe.

This was about our moments that stretched into forever, when we were 17 in your apartment in Ste. Famille, when kisses bubbled into the Chicago years, years of telephone calls and letters between Ste. Famille and Evansville, years when we were in Evansville together before we broke up but stayed together.

The night before I went back to Maine, Simon your black cat sat on the bookshelf near the bed; we lay together in your apartment in Evansville, not talking, not touching.

The photograph of you at 14 was on the shelf; you had a half smile as you looked into the camera, your blue eyes full of hope. Did you ever fulfill your hope? We kept our promise to each other to call before we married.

I never cared who you were with after we broke up. Our moments were forever. That summer morning after we broke up you screamed in my office for me to suck on an egg.  You were jealous I had gone to a literary meeting and had met someone. Julian came in: “Bad weekend?” I winced.

The next day we made up a million times in my apartment under the sun before we broke up one last time. Next year, the same.

After I married, we had dinner one night, when I was in Evansville on a business trip; you told me of the years of drugs and booze but that you finally got clean. You told me you were getting married. The night before I went back to Maine we spent in your apartment in Evansville, lying together, naked, being. It was sensual and not sensual. You would soon be married and I would return to my marriage.

Copyright © 2008 Kathryn Esplin-Oleski. All rights reserved.