Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. This is my first ever piece I’ve shared.

“Still”

9:07, -5: there’s a slow-revolving sign at the top of a nearby pole in the square, flashing the time on one side, the temperature on the other, over and over. She wears her scarf like a noose, stamping her feet to keep them from growing numb. It’s blindingly bright; she’s forgotten her sunglasses at her apartment. Glancing at her watch, she fidgets—combs her fingers through her hair, bites her nails, smiles as a toddler tries to catch nearby pigeons by running at them full speed—all the while searching faces in the crowd around her. 9:23, -5. Finally, she spots him. It’s striking how very much the same he is—same unkempt hair, same arrogant stride, same flutter left of center in her chest. She twists the band on her left ring finger, nervous, delaying the impending first exchange. She takes a deep breath and turns to meet him, can’t help but grin as they embrace for the first time in three years. She buries her face in the collar of his coat, his neck cold without a scarf, just breathing him in for a selfish moment. Hugging him, she remembers his smell far too well, and allows it to envelope her the same way it did when they laid in bed together, or slumped against a rolled up mat after a shared martial arts class. It was intoxicating. She notes that years may pass and emotions may change, but the feeling of falling back into an embrace never does. 9:29, -4.

They agree to duck into a café for some coffee, to offset the cold and the noticeable absence of having something to do with their hands (hands which, when in close vicinity to each other, were too accustomed to clasping together, joints and tendons aligning). They order, sit. Catch up. There are some awkward moments between them at first; the inevitable question of new significant others, to which she responds in the affirmative, twisting her ring, and he in the negative. Their words often match their coffee orders in a way that is too coincidental to not mean something—his caramel macchiato and flowery descriptions of nature and theses bordering on cloyingly saccharine; her black double espresso and staccato sentences, minimal and direct, biting and bitter at times. He rambles about his lazy summers in the mountains, his tense winters locked away behind an aging laptop, a dissertation slowly brewing; she breezes over graduation, her job. He awkwardly pats her on the knee. It’s so good to see you again.

Exiting the cafe after a few more minutes, they wander the streets and canals, no destination in mind. They bump shoulders and walk into each other so often that she finally intertwines her arm with his, gaits then lining up, old habits falling into place soon thereafter: finishing sentences, brushing errant eyelashes off cheeks. They are obvious—old lovers, older friends, strolling through outdoor markets, exchanging a grin as they reach for the same tattered copy of A Farewell to Arms simultaneously. When they can no longer feel their fingers brushing over the worn beads of old rosaries, they duck into an empty bar, not technically open. The walls are wood-paneled, the ceilings high and grandiose, the room full of still silence. She leaves her scarf on.

After sitting in the bar long enough for feeling to come back into their extremities, they leave and allow their day to meander like the leaves lazily swirling down the canal. He surreptitiously passes her a small flask of good whiskey, an alternative means of retaining warmth. The conversation inevitably takes a turn toward the serious. She talks about her husband, their shotgun wedding on an errant Tuesday. She tries to cast him in the best light possible; she knows she fails at this. They find a jungle gym in an empty courtyard, and with a naive streak living beneath her worldly maturity, she clambers on the bars and ropes, all the while communing with the ducks on the far bank of the canal. Her scarf flutters in the raw wind, fringe dancing like expert fingers sweeping across a piano’s keys. As the sunlight droops beneath the water, she notes how aware she is of the time the last train leaves the city, outwardly ignoring its elephantine presence in the room. They stumble now as much from the whiskey as from their numb toes, and end up in a sushi bar, at which he insists on buying her dinner. Their conversation wanes, each enjoying the shared silence at the table. As their meals arrive, he slips and tells her how beautiful he thinks she is, how much she’s changed in three years. Though I suppose you’re still the same old you at heart, he concedes. At this, she nods vigorously.

They soon brave the biting cold once more, sitting down on the edge of a rusty iron bridge, near to her apartment, legs dangling over the water. Their figures, distorted, reflect back up at them, illuminated by a string of decorative lights along the far bank. She is drunk now; the parked bicycles and pavement beneath them list to one side at a crazy angle. Still, they remain lost in the rhythm of passing the alcohol back and forth, not speaking much. She pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, raw wind nipping at any inch of exposed skin. Her wedding band twirls, a consequence of her nervous energy, always. He tells her that since he’s lost her, he’s realized just how perfect she really is. She disagrees with this assertion, voices the fact that she hates herself and how this destroys her relationships, smiling through quiet tears in her eyes. He feels replaced. She says nothing, as it’s technically true and she doesn’t have a reason for how it happened. He takes another swig, checks his watch. She says she is sorry, and she knows she has never meant it as sincerely as she does at this moment. They stand; he has a train to catch. There is an embrace; he pulls back, their faces inches from each other, the cold drawing the red to their cheeks, noses. He tells her just how difficult it is not to kiss her. She meets his gaze, unwilling to look away. He will always love her; she, him. If this were ever a question in the past, the painful longing and devotion she saw in her eyes reflecting back in his removes any doubt from her mind. He sighs, deeply, his breath clouding between them, and kisses her cheek, soft and gentle. I need you, he says quietly. She is still, unable to meet his gaze. I know I fucked up, he starts, but maybe we could try again, do it over, do it all differently.

For a moment she’s struck by this idea, wholly enamored with it. She can see this redo, this perfect divergent future stretching out in front of her like miles of freshly paved highway. One where she’s happy, content, without doubt in her partner’s fidelity.

But she cannot. She will not tell him to catch a different train, tomorrow, and he won’t immediately agree. He won’t call a nearby hotel and book a room for the night, so they won’t make the ten minute trek there, giggling loudly from the whiskey and the utter impossibility of this reunion. They will not stumble to his room on the fifth floor and sit on the balcony, reminiscing about their past, ruing their fights. She will not get so cold that she can’t feel her hands, so he won’t take them in his own, rubbing them and pushing hot breath into them like a baseball pitcher on a chilly night, buying time. She will not be mostly sober when she strips down to her tank top and underwear and climbs into his bed. He will not stand across the room, looking at her without speaking for several minutes, finally removing his own layers, snapping the lights off, and joining her. They will not lie together, fitting one body to the other as though not a day has passed since they last did this. He will not comment on her lacy underwear as he runs his hands gently over her, rediscovering the planes and curves of her torso. She won’t mention that it’s lime green, so he won’t laugh out loud at the image. He will not slowly, questioningly slip his fingers beneath that lace, and so she will not silently allow him to do so. She also won’t be thinking about her husband, 5,000 miles away on a business trip in Chicago. She will not note that he’s likely doing something similar with someone else at the same time. She will not push these thoughts roughly to the side. They will not make love once again, and it will not be passionate and sincere and perfect. He will not hoarsely cry out her name. When it’s over, she will not rest her head on his chest, listening to that two-beat murmur; home. She will not whisper that she loves him and then draw back, biting her lip, hoping the comment doesn’t upset him. He will not smile sadly and whisper the same in response. They will not lay awake, caressing each other and talking about books and music and nothing until sunrise. They will not get coffee and croissants for breakfast; there will be no handholding between bites and sips. He will not walk her home as the street cleaners finish their loud morning duties. He will not hold her close at her front door.

Because she does not take this chance, she will not fall back in love with this man that always had a firm hold on her heart. She will not, cannot leave her ring and a note on the kitchen counter that afternoon. She will not leave the man she’s supposed to love. She will not move out and then move in, reorganizing drawers and taking up closet space with him, this former lover of hers. She will not become consumed with guilt for weeks, months following; he will not console her through it, won’t prove every day his total devotion to her, how much he needs her, supports her. She will not, then, admit to him her knowledge of her husband’s infidelity, the abuse she put up with from her spouse, emotional in nature but devastating in its constancy. He will not console her. She will not be saved by her best friend, her perfect companion, her truest soul mate.

Instead, he will catch his train at 11:26pm and she will return to her bed, alone. She will regret, but she will lie, still.