and i wake with your memory over me

that's a real legacy to leave.

Remember how I used to say that mornings with him were my favourite? And I could never pinpoint exactly why - other than the fact that maybe, the drunkenness wears off. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re alone, the crowds and bar patrons and bartenders have disappeared. It’s just us, in his bed, in our little land of “what-if’s”.

“You’d like this one.” He takes a book off the stack of his bedside table and hands it to me. It’s one of those paperbacks with tiny print that are 500 pages.

“Um. There’s a lot of words - and it’s…small?” This is not Marlowe’s Happy Hour. Or Coco’s Blue Sisters.

“But it’s the way he writes. It’s the build up of the characters. Nothing really happens, but you’re invested in the character development and their relationships versus the plot.”

“Interesting. When are you writing yours?”

He puts his arm around me. I lay my head on his chest.

“Mine? I don’t know. It’s hard to tell one story in a linear sequence. It’s easier when it’s done in fragments.”

“Ah. Like my newsletters.”

“Exactly, Emily Mais. Exactly.”

-

A few hours prior, we are sitting next to each other at the bar. The bar, where we now both have promised not to take other people.

“It’s our spot.” He says. “I have eyes now.” (He’s friends with the bouncer who wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have my ID).

I will hold up my end of the deal. I can’t even walk by the place without getting a hit of pining and nostalgia. I can’t ever imagine bringing another guy here.

I haven’t seen him since I ran into him on the street in December. And when we hug, I immediately forget every single reason why I was ever mad.

He takes my winter coat and places it on the empty bar stool beside me. He brings two stools together so he can grab my legs and drape them over his lap.

I face him. “Listen. Me and you …we’re never going to be a thing. And that’s ok.”

He looks down and shakes his head. “We’re too similar. We’re both very emotionally intelligent people, but we’re also both kind of…emotionally fucked up.”

I pause before answering him. And I am reminded of when the Man at the Front accused me of being “exactly like PN” this past summer. I immediately took offence to that comment.

“I’m not married with a child. I’m single. I can do whatever I want.”

“Doesn’t matter. You like the attention, you like the games. You like the conversations, you like the build up. But you don’t actually like the real thing.”

Both OFM and PN have this high level of magnetism, of charm, and of ease. It always felt safe to be myself. But there is also this level of guardedness, of darkness buried beneath the facade. They could have anyone in the room. But they were the happiest alone, and you always wondered why.

“How am I fucked up?” I ask him.

“You know what you’re doing when you’re saying certain things to me. When you’re holding Rome over my head, when you’re posting certain things.”

I roll my eyes. There’s no point in responding. We always end up back at square one. Here. At a bar. Arguing with each other, arguing with ourselves. Reminiscing. Making out. Rinse. Repeat.

“You tell me you’re going to get out of your head, and we’re just going to see where things go, and then you always disappear. It’s the same thing with you. It’s always the same thing.”

He’s the one now rolling his eyes. “It’s toxic, Emily. Whatever it is.”

“It’s toxic, yet you invited me here.” And my legs are still draped over his lap, and I still find myself leaning my head against his shoulder.

“Maybe in ten, twenty years. We’ll have it figured it out by then.” I know he’s trying to make a joke, but the energy feels sad.

He’s right. It is toxic, but it’s a moment. It’s a moment I want to be in. A moment he wants to be in. A moment we are both choosing to be in.

“I think you’re scared of fucking it up.” I tell him.

And without any hesitation, he looks down and admits, “I am. And I always felt like you going to Rome was my karma.”

-

“Plan B. Coffee. Bagel.”

“In that order?”

“Wait, no. Coffee. Bagel. Then Plan B.”

I recite to him our morning plans.

-

“And I didn’t even sleep with him. Can you believe it?” We’ve moved on from the “why we’ll never be” conversation - and I’m telling him about my impromptu coffee date with a guy I met on the street. “Maybe the first time in a while that I haven’t immediately slept with someone on the first date.” I make myself laugh.

“Hey - I didn’t sleep with you on the first date.”

“I know.”

“In fact, I made it very clear that I wouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“When did we?” He asks.

“Third date.” I remind him. “After the impromptu group date you took me on.”

“Ah. The Terroni night.” He smiles.

He came over to my apartment. I had bought a cheese plate from Pusateri’s. He brought over a bottle of wine. We drank half. He told me he made dinner reservations for us with his friends because he didn’t want me to think that he was coming over just to hook up. I told him I didn’t think that. We showed up to that dinner tipsy and annoyingly, all over each other. Lol.

“We barely made it out of the elevator. And then you asked me if I was going to ghost you.”

He puts his hand over his face but can’t hide his smile. “Fuck. I did, didn’t I?”

“Yup. And then I was like - “No. Are you going to ghost me?”

“What a memory, Emily Mais.” He shakes his head. “What a memory.”

-

This was the first night in eight years where we haven’t been careful. I’m not sure what prompted it, but I’m not mad about it all. And I don’t think he is, either.

He’s neatly folded my jeans, off the shoulder top, and socks. They’re on a pile on the floor beside the bed, along with a water bottle and a bottle of Advil. I’m wearing his old navy t-shirt. He pulls my body in closer to him, our hands intertwined.

-

I’m a few martinis in on this snowy Sunday evening in January, and I am getting teary eyed.

And then, because I cannot call you home, I call it home. I show him my favourite quote from Grief is For People.

“It’s the perfect way to describe it. Grief. She needs to also accept that pain and that sadness, because that’s where their relationship lives now. And she can escape to it anytime she needs.”

He strokes the palm of my hand, his eyes are watery too. “You understand.”

I nod. “I don’t know.” I look down and wipe away a few tears. “It’s kind of how I feel about you, too. The writing. The newsletters. I want us to live somewhere, to remember us. Because -”

“It was special.” He squeezes my hand.

I nod. The tears are falling. It was inevitable. He kisses me. I kiss him back. This is where we live now. In moments like this. And I think of everything. Of how he’s always championed my writing. Of how he used to send my first articles that I ever had published to his friends. Of how proud he was. Of how proud he always was. Of how I can say whatever I want to him, and of how he’s still there. He’s always there. And most of the time - I don’t really say the kindest of things. Because I’m scared, too. Of fucking it up. Of fucking it all up. And maybe, on some level, we both don’t feel like we deserve all of the love we have for one another. Maybe that’s why we’re so similar. That’s why we’re both emotionally fucked up.

He has always seen me, for me. He has always loved me, for me.

“It is special, Emily.” He corrects his choice of past tense, and looks sad, too.

-

“Ok. Bagel. Coffee. Plan B. Finalized morning routine.”

He laughs and kisses the back of my head. “I’ll take care of it. Goodnight, Emily Mais.”

“Night.” I smile. I squeeze his hand harder, and fall right asleep.

-

and i wake with your memory over me.

that’s a real fucking legacy to leave.

♥️