I woke up this morning thinking we were friends. I wasn’t even thinking of you, but the world looked like it did when we were friends: curvy, elegant, designed by someone who doesn’t understand gravity. When I cut open a lemon, it broke in half like it would have those days when I knew you were out there, in a different time zone, probably still sleeping, one foot dropped outside the covers. When I squeezed half a lemon in a glass of water, three seeds fell in even though I was sure I’d carved them out over the sink. I flipped the switch, and remembered that the garbage disposal is broken and the rumbling I anticipated was interrupted with silence and that’s when I realized you’re not at the other end of my internal dialogue. You’re sleeping, maybe differently now, tangled another way. Or you’re up and your eyes are swollen. You pour coffee into that mug I bought you, an inside joke executed so well that we laughed about it even after we left things as friends–I can still hear you laughing–and I imagine you wake up and find it and hear me laughing too. Or you drink from it and think nothing, forgetting I can hear that as well.
posted by holly, former mermaid turned swimmer.