One Afternoon

There was one summer. One perfect, beautiful summer. And one afternoon, one unutterably blissful afternoon when I thought you loved me. I remember exactly your face when you said it - when I thought you said it. I remember my wide-eyed, gaping smile response. I remember that I almost kissed you in front of all of them. I couldn't stop grinning like a mad thing all afternoon. And I remember that I could never bring myself to ask you if that was what you'd actually said. But for a few hours I believed it.

I couldn't ask because I knew you didn't want to and I wasn't going to break the spell. But I didn't have control. The less happy you were the less time you had for me, the less you spoke to me, less you seemed to need me. I was unanchored in my affection and left bobbing, trying to find the harbour and not knowing how. You used to say such things, such flyaway careless sweet things that you probably don't even remember but I couldn't forget; I couldn't let go of how it used to be.

It was inevitable really, this moving apart. We both knew it was inevitable but that didn't stop me willing it, wishing it to last longer. Wishing we really did take that weekend trip; wishing you had meant it when you told me I could have you for as long as you lasted. You always used to joke about death. And I would protest and laugh because you seemed so alive to me, even though you were a reckless fool sometimes. I really thought for a summer you would keep me. I would get a little flat and you would help me paint it, and then we'd have sex and lie on the floor and talk about life. You fed those dreams, though you probably don't remember.

I don't know how I did it but I lost you. I lost your sweetness; I lost the look you used to give me when I smiled at you and you couldn't help yourself, you had to tell me I was beautiful. I don't know if I became less beautiful or if you stopped noticing. I never stopped noticing you.

And here we are living out the comfortable, carnal remnants of that summer, and if you didn't want me anymore I know you would say so. But you don't; you don't want me like you used to. You don't want all of me. You don't want to let me in. I understand, but it hurts me. I splinter, I fragment when I think about it but when I'm with you, I feel like me. And how is it possible that I can both be broken and mended by your touch?

That's what you did for me. You let me be me. You never expected me to be anything else; you, unlike so many, never told me to change in any way, you just showed me how I could be stronger. I love you for that. I always will. But I can't love you anymore like I used to; I'm too tired now for that. I thought it was possible, but I was not made for blind, unreciprocated devotion. I am having to unstick myself, one fraction at a time, but I can't unstick the memories.

A long time from now when we don't speak anymore and I don't even know where you are or what you're doing, I still won't have forgotten that one summer. I still won't have forgotten your lovely face. I still won't have forgotten that you loved me, for one afternoon.