One year. 365 days. 365 days since your perfect boyfriend invited you to a perfect restaurant and with exquisite tenderness broke your heart and ended your perfect relationship by telling you his job was more important than you were. Of course th...
Months ago you had packed away most of your memories of the relationship, or tried to.
You went through wild spells of activity to exorcise the painful reminders. You seriously considered moving. Every room in your house fired a memory of Jin, laughing with you, cooking for you, loving you.
In the end you settled for a few small changes at a time. Your first purchase was a new set of bar stools. Maybe that would erase the sweet memory of an early Sunday afternoon, being rocked to climax at the breakfast bar, or eating countless meals there or endless conversations, maybe.
Try as hard as you could, you could not rid your body of the imprint of Jin. For months every morning when you stepped out of the shower you checked the skin just below your collarbone. Jin had picked that particular spot as his spot for some reason. You did not know if it was because of the way he fit into your body, or the way you tasted to him, but he always left you marked in that spot. You looked in vain for weeks after he left hoping a trace of his mark had remained. All physical proof of him was gone.
For your birthday in “the year” you decided to get a small watercolor tattoo on that spot. It was not to remind you of him, you told yourself. It was for you.
But in your heart you knew you were seeking proof that time was real. You wanted a mark to remind your body how it could feel, how it could love and be loved.
You picked out a tiny watercolor butterfly. The tattoo artist warned you the watercolor ink would fade in time. You thought that was the perfect symbol for a vibrant relationship that was now just a memory
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You hid away the more tangible memories. In a box in the top of your closet were a dozen pair of expensive scraps of red lace, silk and satin Jin had selected from the best lingerie shop in Paris. They were carefully covered in pink tissue paper and were topped by handwritten notes and cards. Also tucked away were the countless slips of paper , movie ticket stubs and takeout menus, that told your story.
You had taken the box down from time to time to add things you found. The last time was the day you were cleaning your bedside table. Feeling something in the very back corner of the drawer, you dug until you pulled out a long black silk tie. You sat on the floor beside the bed and cried for an hour before you pulled the box down and hid it away.
Today you pulled the box down to finish the task of cleaning the slate. You sat on the bed and stared for long minutes. You had promised not to cry but the tears fell unheeded down your face. In your hands you held the faded flannel, worn soft by wear over the past year. It had been your comfort, your robe, your apron, but mostly your security blanket since Jin gave it to you. Today it was going in the box.
You lied to yourself and said you did not need it anymore. You lifted the flannel to your face and breathed it in. It had long lost Jin’s smell but you immediately remembered it. Your face in the shirt took you right back to your face buried in Jin’s hard chest.
“Idiot” you whispered in the silence. It applied equally to you both you and Jin.
When you pulled the shirt away it was soaked in tears. You folded it neatly, placed it gently inside and returned the box to the top shelf. You turned off the light and closing the door, stood several minutes wiping tears. Straightening your shoulders, you turned and walked away.
