Maybe Forgetting Is the Answer

It’s been almost a month. I thought I’d be over it by now, but I’m not.

I found myself at that coffee bar on the other side of the river with one of those shitty little vending machines that dispense junk, funky earrings, and tiny works of art. I typed in the alphanumeric code and watched a small pack of oracle cards drop into the tray. I was hoping they’d say something about personal growth, rebirth, fresh starts, or something like that. They told me nothing. Nothing changed.

I know he would’ve laughed at the idea of me spending six dollars for a vending machine to tell me about what comes next. The very concept of sampling divination to snap me out of whatever spell I was under and think about something else for a change.

I used to love talking about him, our weekend plans_, and what movies we’d watch after work; I used to think we were so lucky. He remarked it was like the honeymoon phase that never ended: like we were just floating through life together, unchallenged, too busy pretending we were meant to be.

After several months of being together, we found ourselves in this murky place of uncertainty; neither of us wanted to call it what it was. I remember how he would open his mouth to speak just to close it again as he rolled the thought around in his head a couple more times. His gentle nature chipped away to reveal what he actually thought about the world, about my friends, about me.