It was too cold, this December, too cold even to hold your hand. But we bore our hands against the wind and tossed our shivering hands into a numb finger salad anyways.
I didn't need to feel your hand, or grip it, as fiercely as I would if mine were tempered. I knew you were by my side. And that you loved me.
I liked walking in swing with you. If you had enough spring in your step, and I had just begun mine, sometimes your scent would drift just close enough to travel up my sniveling nostrils. Often, I took too far a step, and you had to scurry to catch up.
We arrived at the train station ten minutes early. Your nose and cheeks seemed to be the only kiss of color against the still Seattle greyscale. A sprite of love, I said to you. That's what you are to me. You laughed, complained about the weather and your monochromatic outfit, and scolded me for having allowed my coat collar to pop and flutter. You reach up on your tip-toes, and I lean over, partly to make things easier for you, mostly to be closer to you, lingering for a moment.
Wait, you say, breaking away. Hold this. I look up, your purse already in my hands, flint wheel flicking in yours. You blew the smoke away from me between long drags of culled respite, crouched far, as to ease my mind.
I just wanted to be close to you.
So I took a wavering breath, the cool menthol and frosted air helping the tobacco into my lungs. I felt your guilt in that moment, as you smothered the butt against the floor.
I wish you had just held my hand instead, forever.
I don't know why I cried.
-
It had been weeks since I had last seen you. I didn't know what to expect. I suppose I was nervous, or excited, or anxious. The harsh bite of winter had softened since. It was a soft, pink morning. I said hello to your parents chao chiu; chao gong, handing them the gift I had prepared for them. I brought some dates and chocolates for your mother. I don't think she ate more than one piece of each by the time I left. You came down to greet me, and pulled me up the stairs and into your room.
You hugged me before I had even a chance to drop my bags.
Happy Valentines Day.
You wore my shirt, but your scent had metastasized into it.
I love you!
Look at what I made for you!
You pull out a card, with little drawings of where we first met, some cartoon figures of us together.
We were so young. I didn't know better.
I don't know why I cried.
-
I'm sorry.
I suppose I knew you were going to cry. I had thought of every outcome. I had to prepare myself, to get through the things I wanted to say. I knew it wasn't fair. I knew it was my fault. But you were just another stupid girl. You like music, clothes, and movies. Who doesn't like music, clothes and movies? You don't even make music, or clothes, or movies. You want a tattoo and a piercing and a fancy car and a lavish dress, you want to dye your hair and do your makeup and smoke your cigarettes, but you cannot afford a tattoo or a piercing or a fancy car or a lavish dress or hair dye or makeup or cigarettes. Your hobby is to look pretty and dress up, but I thought you looked pretty no matter what you wore.
And then there was still Everything else. I didn't care or want to remember everything else.
You are just another stupid girl anyways.
And it grew a tumor of stupidity inside me, in my closet, in my throat, in my mind, in my crotch.
I don't know why I cried.
Nobody will ever make me cry again.