untitled 4/22/18

We fucked on the kitchen floor of his second story apartment and when it was over we walked to the taco shack downstairs and each ordered two Modelos and nachos. It was the best first date I've ever had, before or since.

We didn't stop talking or laughing or trading kitchen floor orgasms for the next three years, and when it eventually all fell apart we still loved each other very much, which made everything harder.

I don't even recall why things did end in the first place, but whatever it was that existed between us was special. I know everyone thinks what they have with someone is special, but even after all this time, I still believe what we had was. And I can't quite explain why, even, but it was just...

It was just. It was something that was enough when so many things in our lives never are.

We were, though. Until, of course, we weren't.

It's strange. One day you're 18 or 21 or 23...then 25 then 26 then 27 and you realize you're so far from the last version of yourself that you can't even decipher who the fuck you are anymore. That all the things you vowed to never do you've done twice, and all the things you said you'd never care about suddenly become very important to you.

When you're not enough for yourself it's hard to be enough for anyone else.
When you become a stranger even to yourself you disappear to the ones you love most.

So what happens?

Nothing. And that's the problem.

Sooner or later that dull knife of Nothing severs something between you and this person. This special. This thing that was supposed to be enough.

We ended amicably if there is such a thing and went our separate ways, walking away from the magic and make believe world we'd built around us. A world where everything worked out okay in the end. Walking away from three years of forehead kisses and nightcap beers and venomous, vicious, fights. From Saturday morning coffee in too-big t-shirts and wool socks, weekend trips to the farmer's market in the Village, lazy afternoon naps on the couch.

From the taco shack downstairs that eventually went out of business.

From each other.

Our goodbye was brief and uncomfortable, neither of us wanting to look the other one in the eyes.

I'd never felt more alone in my life.

We exchanged a strained, awkward embrace and headed in opposite directions down 51st street. It was the day before Thanksgiving.

I walked to the closest bar to console myself, or because I had nowhere else to go, I don't remember anymore, and ordered a Modelo. They didn't have nachos.

When I reached into my coat pocket for my wallet I felt the piece of paper.

It was folded neatly into a square and had been placed there earlier, inconspicuously and unbeknownst to me.

"We were more than enough. " It read.

"You are my Sunday morning."

I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat as I stared at the words on the second line. These five words that were ripping me into a thousand pieces while I sat, alone, at a near-empty bar the day before Thanksgiving.

I'd never felt more alone in my life.

"You are my Sunday morning." 

I ran my thumb over the words, reading them one last time, before leaving the piece of paper on the bar and walking back out into the snow.