she saw the back of his head everywhere that day. she also saw his face, his eyebrows, his nose, the shape of his forehead, his head of hair. she saw how he walked in the fish market through a man’s demeanour. she saw his arms in the way another held up a newspaper. his skin could’ve been this skin as it lay flat against the wobbly table, with tea trembling against the glass. he shared features with the entire world; he was reflected in a small spoon, he tasted nothing like sugar cubes.
she didn’t know what he wanted from her that day. she hadn’t asked and wouldn’t beg the sky for an answer. it was likely the first time in a long time that he had knowingly sat down and called her to mind (or rather stewed, mulled over, cooked these thoughts in a pot of boiling water)—until his attention had somehow reached her, through that trusty metaphysical motion of ideation.
every time she saw him everywhere that day, she was startled, then vaguely relieved. she knew he still existed somewhere in the universe, and even though he was long gone, she conceded that she hadn’t properly mourned him. she hadn’t had the chance; she saw him flee from the rain, only to get caught under the hail. he could never follow through with the transaction. she was waiting to be given the satisfaction of his regret. sometimes it is the only way to accelerate the mourning process. she was waiting for this, still. it took a certain willingness to admit it.
that day, she saw him in the way that we mistake our shadows for ghosts. she thought of the memories she didn’t keep; she thought of the ones she would never forget. she wished she had stopped to consider what hadn’t happened. we devise our lives through the unknown—these moments, this past, they were never more than what they were. she regretted knowing that she would never remember anything from what she had already forgotten.
