on a thursday in march, he had to leave. it was for a small trip, but it was a trip nonetheless. and trips had a way of creating distance. it wasn't so much about the fact that he would be 1,041 miles away. it was just that their bodies felt pain when they couldn't touch each other.
she had been going on with her day as if he wasn't putting four outfits and all of his shoes into a bag. she'd swept the floors twice and made them the most amazing sandwiches. to the tomatoes, she'd added things like figs and caramelized onions. she'd also decided it was a special enough occasion for her fancy dishes, so she pulled out two place settings and carefully arranged them next to fork and knife.
they really were good sandwiches. she always had a way of doing that. showing her love through the marriage of perfectly crusted bread and whatever lived between the slices. when he met her, he hadn't been much of an eater. but he was learning to slow down enough to love it as much as she did. it was one of the best things she could teach him. and so she taught - calling him over to the stove when the onions were just about perfect. saying things like, "look. this is the moment that becomes magic. watch them change. just watch."
and he would stand behind her with his arms around her waist, kiss her neck and watch.
and there, in the pan, the onions would transform from translucent chunks to opaque strands of perfection. she was always surprised by this. because she'd had a way of messing things up before.
she turned the burner off and just stood. and on that day, in that moment, she felt something more than his hands around her waist and his mouth over her ear. she felt beyond his whispers of, "oh, love. i'm going to miss you." it was the complicated feeling that she was home all jumbled up with knowing he was leaving.
she preferred to keep him close.
oh, this. sigh.
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