When you woke up, you sat up and looked around. “Guess I stayed the night.”
“Looks that way,” I agreed and you laughed, a low, sad sound, before lying down again. I turned to face you, tried to look you in the eye, looked away and tried not to cry. You pulled me closer. I turned away and you wrapped your arm around me. I traced the blue rivers of your veins up and down your arm, let my fingers ski the slopes of your knuckles, locked my fingers with yours and squeezed as tightly as I could. “I don’t want to go,” I moaned, the ‘o’ dragging out and dying off. You didn’t say anything.
It got brighter and brighter outside and I was sure that getting out of bed would be impossible. I eventually sat up but couldn’t get much further than that; you sat up next to me and then we were just tangled up in each other in a different position—not progress, just motion. I crashed into you all morning. Bumped into you in the hallway on purpose. Knocked my knee against yours while you smoked. Slid my hand across your back as I passed you.
You helped me load my things into the car and I still couldn’t look at you without feeling that burn start at the back of my eyes. I said goodbye to my dog, turned out the lights. You followed me to my car. I shut the trunk, turned to you and buried my face in your chest before I could catch your glance. We hugged for awhile, kissed for awhile. You’ve always been the first to pull away from our goodbyes but this time I was. I looked at you and started tearing up. “See ya,” I said, and tried to pull away. You held onto my arm for a second longer before letting me slip away.
“See you,” you agreed.
