Your List

I’ve accumulated a list of twelve things that trigger the thought of you.

Obscure, yet distinct, each has a story attached and each makes the pit of my stomach feel empty. 

Some include:

When I told you I like my Weetbix soggy, you advised me on an amazing concept to enhance that. 

‘Heated in the microwave for thirty seconds and it will change your life’ you suggested. 

But I didn’t believe you because I claim what I know is best and what I know is that I much prefer cold and soggy Weetbix. You were disappointed by my decision to stay true to myself and that I wasn’t excited to try something you had proposed. Perhaps you felt rejected and perhaps it set the tone for the day ahead. 

You’d skilfully roll a cigarette while I would drive us somewhere new for coffee. You only asked me once if I’d allow you to do that and assumed every chance was a ‘yes’ after. Smoke would spill out the window, but the wind would catch it and pull it back inside the car and whispering its way into my lungs. It was endearing to watch you smoke, so I didn’t mind. You left the butt of the cigarette in the car, a tactile testament to your bad habit. It smelt for the rest of the afternoon, but you smiled and planted a kiss on my cheek. It was now my job to deal with it. I dropped you home and you waved from your front porch, tossing a kiss to me as I drove away. 

Now when I get into my car alone, I sit in silence for a moment expecting you to have a song picked and ready to play like you always did. But the old Bluetooth connecter finds a station and the white noise impales my ears. 

I made a playlist of all the songs you showed me in that car. A collection of melodies creeping along the lines of self-sabotage.

You led us through the emergency exit of the bar. So many flights of stairs, so many confused staff members with unspoken inquiries. I was just as confused as they were, wondering how we got there and where we were going. I found the exit and swung the door open, greeted by the gusty wind tunnel of a side street that entertained itself with my fringe. Briefly separated, I looked back to you gripping a menu under your arm, pressing my curiosity. 

‘Why’d you grab that?’ I said.

I didn’t want to get into trouble, and you didn’t want me to care. You just laughed and grabbed my hand as we ran around the corner to the main road. I walked home alone that night, after we fought about another girl. Now hidden behind my desk is the menu you stole, leaning against my bedroom wall. It serves as a reminder of our considered ending.

There are two types of people in this world; those who keep their sheets tucked and those who do not. I tuck my sheets, but I am a perfectionist’s daughter. You are the antithesis of me. I hated staying at your place with the bed never made. I would assemble the sheets while you weren’t in the room. Not for you, but for my own sanity. When we’d sleep in my bed; you’d untuck the ends without compensation, and they’d be left in the morning for me to promptly reconstruct. Perhaps this was telling of what was to come for us, but I fall asleep gently now knowing it won’t be a mess tomorrow.