7 odd things that remind me of him

1.  Decaf coffee. I recently stopped drinking coffee past noon, and I told him a week ago I was looking for a good alternative for an afternoon pick-me-up. I thought that decaf coffee might trigger a psychological reaction to feel more awake, just through the taste alone. "Don't do it. Decaf coffee is fucking pointless. It will dry you out," he said.

Someone at work was drinking a decaf coffee a couple of Fridays ago, two days after he ended it. My heart sunk.

2.  Flossing. When we first starting dating and doing the nightly flirt-while-brushing-your-teeth-before-bed dance, he asked me if I flossed. "Sometimes," I lied. "Maybe a couple times a week." Calling my bluff, he bought me a floss wand, which is probably the one item he gave me or is associated with him that I don't plan on throwing out or hiding from sight.

Truthfully, my gums have stopped bleeding. But, I'm still terrible at keeping up with my oral health.

When he asked me when my last dental visit was and I answered truthfully, he was trying to withhold judgement. It's been nearly two years, regrettably, and I promised him that I would go before the year was over. I know that I still should, ever since a new friend of mine told me a horrific story about people my age who got sealants on their teeth as kids now presenting with multiple cavities. I'm tacitly cursing my mom for making me get a sealant at age ten, which at the time I told the dental assistant "tasted like the smell of the hair salon."

3.  Jeff Goldblum. We mutually loved him, and the first movie we ever saw together was The Grand Budapest Hotel. I had already seen it months before, but I begged him to see it with me again. He was the first person to introduce me to the YouTube gem that is Jeff Goldblum's laugh at the end of Jurassic Park. I peed laughing watching it.

4.  The four-dollar glass vase that's tucked away in my kitchen, that he asked me to buy when I moved into my apartment so he could bring me flowers more often.

5.  Mate tea, yet another alternative to afternoon coffee that was his idea. It tasted gross at first, but like a fine wine, the more I sipped it, the more I liked it.

6.  Washington Nationals' first baseman Adam LaRoche, who is his favorite player on the team. I never thought I would utter this of my favorite baseball team, but I'm selfishly relieved he may not play with the Nats next season.

7.  Soy milk. We ate cereal for breakfast on weekday mornings, mine with almond milk and his with soy milk. I bought a gallon of soy milk to keep in my fridge for mornings at my place. Six days before he broke up with me, I dropped the cap to his soy milk in the pointless crack between my stove and the countertop; this was same crack where I once dropped a piece of cooked egg while making a Mexican scramble for us one night. Thinking that the cap was lost in that abyss before 8 am on a Thursday morning, I figured it was gone for good. He, however, spent twenty minutes using our kitchen rug in an attempt to pry it out from under the stove. I stood behind him, in my pink bathrobe, sweeping up all the crumbs, the wayward dried piece of egg, a Heineken bottle cap (presumably from some previous tenant's poor choice to drink crappy beer), countless pieces of quinoa, and a plethora of other dried food items that have accumulated in this square yard of space, possibly for years. We high-fived when it finally slid into sight, and we made out to celebrate. But now, soy milk will always taste a little sour.

Ghost Town

When I walk around my neighborhood, I see ghosts.

There's the pathway from my apartment through the park, where we once walked underneath his massive blue and white umbrella in the rain to meet my parents for dinner, and he held my hand as I stepped over puddles trying not to ruin my new flats. Three blocks further down and a block to the right is the Indian restaurant where we met them. He wore a tie - my favorite one, the skinny black one, that when paired with his plaid red and white shirt, was my favorite thing he wore. And unlike any guy who's ever met my parents in the past, he looked my father in the eye and shook his hand. 

Going back the way we came to the Indian place, there's the Italian restaurant where we met for dinner after I signed the lease for my new apartment. He ordered a martini for the first time, and neither of us knew if the transparent, light olive green color was the because the bartender accidentally made it dirty or if it was the vermouth. He sat facing the restaurant, while I sat facing the street and the August sunshine. I was wearing my little black dress from Express that hugs my body in all the right places. He asked me to take off my sunglasses since he couldn't see my eyes, and he wanted to look into them.

Diagonally across the intersection from the Italian place, there's the Thai place we walked to on one of those oppressive, muggy summer nights where the air feels heavy and time stands still and everyone moves at a glacial pace. We talked about his fear of getting caught in rip tides, a symptom of growing up in Florida, and my love for swimming in the ocean. We made an agreement that when, eventually, we'd go to Florida together, he'd face this fear.

Up half a block and around the corner to the left, is the upscale restaurant we used to mock. I don't even remember how it started, but we did our bit every time we walked past it, holding hands on the way to or back from the metro. Accents and voices being one of his talents, he put on this British, old man voice. I called him "Gerald" and pretended to be elderly and asked him to flag down the waiter, who he called "you, boy," so we could send back my imaginary soup that was too hot. The first time he did the voice, he didn't stop until we were at the metro station two blocks away. I almost fell over laughing, and I had to ask him to stop so I could avoid strange looks from fellow passengers on the escalator. 

Continuing past the turn for the metro station and up the street even further, is the independent movie theater where we saw The Grand Budapest Hotel and our love affair with with Jeff Goldblum began. Across the street is the Barnes & Noble where he'd study during the summer, waiting for me to be done in the lab before we went on a date.

And then there's my apartment itself, littered with memories of us. He helped me carry boxes from his little silver car up to the apartment, and we laid down on the floor in my empty room, looking at the ceiling and trying to decide where my bed should go.

When I walk in my front door, I see ghosts.

A love letter never written or sent

Author's note: I wrote this piece in late September of 2013, while sitting on a dock in Gotland, a Swedish island in the Baltic Sea. The content of this essay, a true story, took place in March of 2013 as I was flying back from vacationing with my mother in Ireland. I transferred this essay from my handwritten journal to a Word document in November, the most depressing time to live in Sweden. (Tangent: I was going through my version of a "Bukowski" phase, where I drank several glasses of wine nightly and, regrettably, smoked cigarettes out my window while writing by candlelight). I recently found this piece on my computer, and reading about my attraction to a near stranger gave me hope for my future and my ability to love again. 

--

I boarded a plane to Stockholm on a cold, yet sunny March afternoon. It had been snowing in Dublin for the duration of my trip, a rare and isolated event, apparently, and I was in no rush to head further north. All that was waiting for me this Easter weekend in Sweden were two cats and several trips to my office to catch up on work. I felt like Ireland, the enchanting island of my forefathers before me, was where I should be. Reluctantly, I got on the plane.

All the way in the back row. Perfect, I thought. I have to wait for all these bastards to get off when we land so I can barely make my connection in Copenhagen. I settled in my window seat, flipping through the pages of the in-flight magazine, my eyes glazing over each glossy page about some vacation spot I can’t afford with disinterest. Then, I saw you.

You sat in the middle seat next to me, storing your suit jacket in the overhead compartment before checking some messages on your phone. You smiled at me when you buckled your seatbelt, your kind eyes glancing back at your phone before the flight attendant kindly asked you to turn it off. I wanted to talk to you then, but I worried you that you wanted to be left alone. The plane ascended, and I watched the ground below as we flew up into the clouds, high above the Irish countryside below. I could feel your brown eyes on the back of my head, and I wondered if you were watching me or out the window, looking at the misty vapor in the sky.

When we finally got our drinks (coffee for me, you wanted black tea) you spoke:

“So, do you travel often?” you said. Your Irish accent made this hackneyed phrase seem less clichéd. Charming, even.

“Not as often as I’d like,” I responded.

You talked about your Finnish friends in Helsinki you were going to visit, with their sauna and wine cellar. I told you about how I ended up moving to Sweden from the states and how I wanted to live in California some day. The more we talked, I got lost in my fantasy, imagining you getting off a plane in the Stockholm airport while I scanned the arrivals board for your flight. I imagined us taking a drive through the rolling Irish countryside. I imagined you and me in the depths of my sheets, deep in a world where only you and I exist.

I laughed at something you said, and you smiled at me with your whole being. It wasn’t until I felt the wheels hit the runway that I realized our time together was dwindling short. We checked the departures board. My flight was leaving soon, but yours was already boarding. We raced through the airport, through a busy customs patrol, talking about our favorite YouTube videos as we neared our neighboring gates.

You stopped at my gate and embraced me warmly. “If you’re ever in Sweden…” I said, hoping that you’d finish the end of my sentence.

“Definitely,” you replied softly, tacitly understanding my thoughts. The moment dissipated, and you vanished out of sight, to the next gate, to board your flight.

I wish, in that moment, that I would have changed my personality and erased my hesitation. I would have scribbled my phone number on a receipt and rushed to your gate. I would have tapped you on the shoulder in the nick of time and told you that I wanted to see you again. I would have remembered your last name, instead of trying to Google you for days later. I would have told you how I felt about you someday, and you would have held me closely while we lay together at night. I would have memorized the contours of your face, the curves of your lips, the ridges of your chest, the touch of your hand as it fit like a puzzle piece in mine. I would have invited you into my world, my private space that few others can understand.

But instead, I let you go, leaving our imagined romance to fate. I let you go, and I don’t know why.

Half Street

"I'm a Slytherin. I took the test on Pottermore, so I know for sure. What house would you be in?" I asked.

"It's embarrassing," he replied.

"Say no more, Hufflepuff."

My attraction to him grew when he indulged me in a half-hour long conversation about wizardry in our seats in section 141 of Nationals Park, my favorite place to sit. I told him if I went to Hogwarts I'd be a Potions master. We both agreed that Charms class would easy, the one where almost everyone gets an A. Neither of us liked the idea of Divination, and we thought that Transfiguration would be the hardest, especially with the I-take-shit-from-no-one Professor McGonagall teaching it.

Our conversation drifted away from our imagined roles in the Harry Potter universe as the baseball game began. The Nationals were playing the Phillies, the second of a three-game series in early June. Stephen Strasburg pitched that night, and serendipitously, I happened to be wearing my Strasburg shirt. I drunkenly bought that shirt in the summer of 2012, when the team stores only had extra large sizes, so I made it into a cut-off. I worried I looked silly wearing that shirt with a black mini-skirt, but when I caught him looking at my butt in line for a pretzel later in the game, I knew I looked good.

I had gone to the previous night's name, a shut-out win for the Nats. That night, I sat in left field with my co-workers, cheering loudly as it was Ryan Zimmerman's first day back after being on the disabled list for the better part of the first two months of the season. I told my co-worker and his girlfriend how nervous I was for the following night's game, which I had asked him to on a whim. Surprisingly, he agreed to go, but I didn't know if he just wanted to be friends with me.

--

"Come on, Zim, it's not golf!" I shouted as he swung another strike.

"Don't listen to her, man! You got this!" he shouted in response. I smiled back at him, noticing how his blue-gray eyes scintillated against the reflection of the stadium lights.

It started drizzling at the seventh inning, but it didn't stop him from putting his arm around me as we swayed and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." We sat in our uncovered seats contemplating whether the rain would stop. It wasn't until the grounds crew started putting the tarp over the field that we decided to go back into the stadium.

"What do you think?" he said.

"It doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon. To the metro?" I responded.

We hesitated before stepping into the pouring rain. We started to walk fast, but when my sandal fell off and I stopped to put it back on, we slowed down, committing to getting drenched. He was standing on my left side, and he took my hand in his. When we finally made it down Half Street to the Navy Yard station and through the turnstyle, I melted into him on the escalator. Holy shit, I thought. It's happening.

"Keep moving down the platform! Let's keep it moving!" the metro police shouted at us, and we scurried along to find a place to stand.

We let the first train that arrived go by, parking ourselves on a bench. And through the hustle, the shouting of the station managers trying to herd the crowd, the murmur of the crowd itself, and the whirring sound of the train on the opposite side of the platform, he kissed me, slowly and softly.

We shuffled onto the train, stealing kisses whenever possible. And that's when he told me in no uncertain terms: "I like you. I like you a lot, actually."

After the rain delay, the Nats won. And they won the night after that.

Saturday Morning, 7:51 a.m.

I awake in the guest room that used to be my room my parents' house. I'm lying in a twin bed, in a room that is smells familiar and looks comfortable, yet my parents have filled it with things that aren't mine. My dad has turned it into a makeshift lighting studio for his photography projects. A large, black lighting umbrella hangs over me, like it might swallow me whole while I sleep. The closet has only one old coat of mine hanging on the bar. I'm surprised I've managed to sleep in until now, only waking up once during the night.

My first thought is of him. How warm his body felt next to mine, and how waking up next to him felt like Christmas morning, every morning. How every morning he'd ask me how I slept. How his morning yawning made the skin around his eyes wrinkle into tiny crow's feet, and how I had once imagined how I'd be able to watch those wrinkles grow more pronounced as he aged. My heart hangs heavy in my chest as I inexplicably reach out for him, for the ghost of what I remember him to be, to hold me and erase this horrible feeling.

He was going to come to my apartment last night. I was going to make the homemade tomato sauce he liked so much, something he had never made for himself before, with his favorite chicken sausage, which is still sitting unopened in my fridge at home. We were making plans, for tomorrow, for Thanksgiving, for New Year's Eve, and for our future together. I remember all his little words, about how he wasn't going anywhere and how he wanted to love me forever.

I'm afraid to go back to my apartment. It's littered with him, both with his physical things and the memories of every moment we've shared there. But I miss my own space, filled with photos and my little comforts that are uniquely mine.

I've woken up up every day for the past five and a half months, since the day after I met him, with his face etched on my brain. Perhaps I lost myself so much in him that I can no longer remember what it's like to be lost in my own thoughts.

Tuesday Morning

I woke up on Tuesday morning like any other morning we spent together. We woke up and held each other, like we would every day for the rest of our lives. I took a shower and got ready for work while he made a French press in the kitchen, like he would every morning in the house I imagined we would share together. I walked into the dining room, seeing that he poured coffee into the blue Publix travel coffee mug I liked so much, and my favorite cereal and the almond milk he bought for me were on my placemat.

"I'm really into that outfit you're wearing," he said.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," I replied, "because I question this shirt every time I wear it. It looks like maternity clothing."

He laughed, squeezing my hand, telling me I looked far from pregnant. He told me about a Japanese film he liked that he wanted me to see. He got up to get a glass of water, and before leaning in to kiss me, wiped a smudge of unblended makeup off my face.

"My bus will be here in eight minutes," I said.

I got up to leave, gathering my things. I zipped up my jacket and adjusted my scarf.

"I love you, Kelly. And I will miss you when you're gone," he said, before we kissed goodbye. I turned around to leave, still holding his hand. Turning back to face him, he pulled me in for another kiss. It was quick, but little did I know that it was the last one.

It doesn't quite seem real that we were in love on Tuesday, and now, with a two-minute phone call, we're strangers on Wednesday. We were only together for five months, a fraction of the time I have been and will be alive, but I convinced myself I had found my partner, the future Mr. Folkers, and the father of my children. It was a first love, but to me, it was my only love.

To say that I'm hurt would be a grave understatement. I hurt everywhere. It's a palpable, full body ache. Each day seems like a Sisyphusian feat, a constant uphill battle.

To help me process my feelings, I've started writing again, something I've wanted to do for a while now. The title of this blog comes from my favorite song by The Magnetic Fields from their epic album 69 Love Songs. I'll let the song speak for itself, since I'm finding right now that music expresses what I'm feeling better than my own words. I appreciate your support in this time, and I hope you keep reading.