“Love is sometimes denied, sometimes lost, sometimes
unrecognized, but in the end, always found with no regrets, forever valued and
kept treasured.” -- Anonymous
The cool autumn air entered the coffee shop as she walked
through the door. Its frigid tendrils weaved through the space, cutting into
the warmth of the room. She noticed it brushed by customers who sat closer to
the entrance; their bodies unsettled from the sudden burst of chill. She
mentally apologized to them before walking to the counter. She ordered a coffee
– simple dark roast with room for cream – and a piece of brown butter apple
pull-apart bread. Taking a seat, she settled in to answer an email she’d set
aside for longer than she should have; yet she thought about it every single
day since receiving it. She opened the email. She read through it again for the
umpteenth time. She no longer recited through sight, but from memory.
He wrote: In my memory, your lamentations of love, lust and
sadness were like great undulations of waves, forever flowing, always powerful,
deep and loud. Every great emotion of love was followed by deep chasms of
loneliness. Your heart was like a great lake. If one could drop a stone in the
middle, the circles created would ripple out becoming larger and greater in
size. If that stone was love, then great would its effect be as the circles
reach the shores, as they would bounce back. The lake would become a hive of
activity, alive with life and never still; all fueled by the power of one stone
– your love. How I’ve missed you.
His words permeated through her skin, seeping into her pores
and crashing along her veins. Their warmth was such poison; yet, so soothing.
They left her disoriented. He was a set
of conflicting principles, an obstacle course; a push-pull force. He knew what
he wanted and he wasn’t afraid to go after it, but he also knew having the best
of both worlds can mean owning neither. He admitted his faults and mistakes and
tried his best to present himself in more than just one shade. She often
wondered if she peeled off all those layers of paint, would she find a Stygian
portrait of a broken heart painted on his inner walls. He was the wrong one who
made it all seem so right. He seemed to have been the only chaos and confusion
in her life that calmed her and made any sense. Then 6 years later, after learning to unlearn him, his
unexpected message knocked her out of her equanimity. And everything she tried
to forget became the only thing that occupied her mind.
She was brought out of her quiet musings when she heard a
man’s voice say, “I thought coffee’s supposed to help you stay awake?” She
looked up to see a familiar face; one that made her both pine to engage and
pivot for escape. The sound of his voice made her tremble inside. That smile
she couldn’t wipe from her mind beamed at her. It was an invitation for avidity
of the deepest, darkest pleasures. She squinted back into reality, but words
evaded her. Seconds entered into minutes before the silence was cut with his
words, "Do you have so little to say?" He took off his coat and took
the seat across from her.
She finally spoke, "I'm trying to figure out where to
start. You don't just pop back into someone's life after all these years and
expect conversation to flow like water." Her words held a tinge of anger,
but she pulled her senses together and apologized before adding, "How have
you been?"
"Good. You?" His eyes slit, signifying a demand
for the truth. It was something he often did when he sensed she was about to
lie to him. He read her well... too well.
"I'm doing well. Really, I am."
"I almost believe you." He jested.
"Why can't you believe me? Are you so confident your
reemergence into my life made everything unwell? You don't hold that kind of
power over me." She retorted in kind of his making fun; hoping he
understood she, too, was making light of this situation.
"Why the hostility? Should I be worried about getting
hot coffee to the face?"
"Or a heel to the shin. Which do you prefer?"
"Still a sadist, I see." He quipped.
"Oh, masochist, only you would know." She threw
back at him; bemused.
"Is that an invitation?"
"Is that question a confession?" She replied.
He
paused, but she recognized his expression -- furrowed brows roofing dark,
steely eyes that seemed to harbor an inquisition she didn’t want to be exacted
upon her. It could only mean his thoughts were running a mile a minute and he
was racing to keep his composure intact. Why would he do such a thing, she
didn’t know. She simply coiled her assumptions as to what he’d do or say next.
Then his eyes softened. A pleasant smile curved across his
face. He finally spoke, “Since I’m here, you can just talk to me. Like I
said... I've missed you."
