Daylight. Birdcalls. Sunlight soaking the bed, near my arm where his body once lay, on this mauve sheet he picked up at a mall in KL. Thread-count: 1000. He was always sensitive, more so than I to texture. I wouldn’t have minded less expensive linen.
His absence is a wraith-like presence in this room where we’d spent five years of our lives together. I still remember that day in the mall, his little hands caressing yards of fabric, testing, feeling, with those delicate fingers, rubbing the cloth against thumb and forefinger. I wanted him to be done with it but played along. He knew. My best acts could never fool him.
Why did he leave? I guess he sensed a change in the texture of our relationship, one that I hadn’t picked up on. Until later, much later. I was too preoccupied with my work, too busy trying to make an impression on clients I didn’t really give a shit about.
I should have noticed when there were lapses in our conversations about the future. Now that I think about it, later on, it was more a monologue on my part. I really should have noticed when he stopped wanting to decorate the house.
I suppose, unbeknownst to me, he’d eventually plucked my soul and felt its fabric. The result must have disappointed him though I doubt he’d have been caught by surprise.
He’s not the type to leave notes. One night he didn’t turn up, his phone was off, and two days later he showed up to collect his stuff. They were already packed in a suitcase at the bottom of our closet. I should’ve seen it coming. We share the same closet for fuck’s sake.
I’ve since quit work. Ressentiment, I guess.
We’re still friends on Facebook. His profile shows his silhouette framed by a door, beyond which peeks the tiered roof of a temple. A photo from our time together in Bhaktapur. He’s probably not seeing anyone. But then it’s hard to tell, he never put up a photo of us together.
Perhaps one day, I’ll work up the nerve to say ‘Hi.’
when in doubt, whisper non sequiturs.
Last edited by chippedmonk; 10-22-2017 at 06:13 AM..