November 12, 2019

post breakup, moving on

I’m drinking strong Faema coffee, brewed in the little stovetop expresso maker you gave me last February. The cat is doing her regular morning grooming routine.  Bernard Avenue is covered with snow.  Winter came early.

I wonder how you’re doing and if it’s cold in London this morning. I wonder if you’re lonely.   I wonder if you measured ¾ cup of oatmeal and boiled 2 eggs and sliced an apple in that predicable way that used to make my eyes roll with boredom but then watching you eat it with so much enthusiasm and pleasure that even your eyes would squint in a way that would leave me surprised.  I wonder if you still leave all your dirty dishes in the sink.  I wonder if you ever finished that painting you started last spring and if it's sitting on the easel I sent you as a final gift after through tears and suppressed sobs and shattering hearts we agreed staying friends was a bad idea. 

I’ve been walking home across Mount Royal every day after work.  It’s dark and cold and still and beautiful.  I meet the occasional jogger whose face I can’t see in the blackness but who will say “sure is lovely up here and we’ve got it all to ourselves” and I agree and smile and feel an abrupt interruption to my aloneness. This park on a winter evening is like a wilderness surrounded by a city that is asleep.  Then bam the illusion of solitude is shattered with loud car motors and honking as I begin my descent to Rachel Avenue.

Author's Note

first post, seeking criticism