Day 20: The person you loved who didn't love you back
January 3rd, 2012
You're beside me on the groaning and squeaking tan leather couch, staring emptily at the leftover bottle of expensive champagne you were taking swigs from. You're still in New Years Eve party clothing, though the noisy gold shirt looks much less festive on this grey morning.
I want to reach out and smooth your sweaty, flopping sand-coloured hair away. Like sand just after a rainstorm, darkened with flecks of light underneath. But I restrain myself and busy my twitching hands by pulling the bottle away from you. I shove a cup of peppermint hot chocolate at you instead.
It wasn't our first go around. You came to me with your conquests, your flings, your true loves, and your heartbreaks. But I'm not even your best friend. I'm just available to talk at all hours of the day. You must think I have no life.
The reality is that I drop everything each time your text comes, each ding of instant messaging, each treasured yet piercing little reminder that you kept me in your mind. In your heart. That's enough for me, I think.
You had lost a girl you really loved. She was light, life, everything. You wanted to spend your life with her. At least that's what your slurring sounds like. You spill hot chocolate on your lap.
"There are other girls out there."
Look at me.
"Better girls than her."
Like me.
"Just take care of yourself."
Let me take care of you.
December 21st, 2012
Frustrated by the endless, fruitless short-term girlfriends over the year, and finally burned painfully by a coworker that was now filing harassment on you at work in breakup-revenge, you're on my couch again. I tug the whiskey out of your hand this time and press a cup of peppermint hot chocolate to you.
You stay at my place, unwilling to face your empty apartment. I feed you, shove you into the shower to clean, and hide the booze wherever I can. I'm happy, practically floating when I carry your dirty laundry to be washed. We were practically living together, we ate dinner together, and spent our days together - even if it was just sitting around and watching you mope.
December 25th, 2012
Three days after your decision to crash at my place, 10 home-cooked meals, 2 bottles of wine and 1 sappy movie later, in a moment of weakness, you lean over and press your lips to mine.
They're wet with wine, your breath stinks of alcohol, your stubble irritates my skin and your hand heavily falls on my lap. But I'm in heaven. You finally noticed me. I kiss you back urgently, even as your lips sat limply against mine. Even as my tongue darted over your lips, prodding into your mouth, your lay limp. My hand circled their way around your neck and waist. Yours flopped around me.
But I'm so happy. I kiss you until you puke on my nice red dress. I laugh, clean it up, and move the untouched hot chocolate out of the way so I don't knock it over.
March 14, 2014
We moved in together last October. I'm still so happy.
I hum and prepare the Russian beef stew with dill and onions while you browse the internet. I snip the green herbs and tip them into the simmering pot. I left you with a warm drink, the fresh minty smell in the air.
"I love you."
"...I love you, too."
I serve the dinner bowls and pour out the cup of brown, cooling drink, rinsing the cup.
June 22, 2015
You asked me to marry you. It's not exactly what I wanted on my finger, but I can't complain against the expensive canary diamond.
We're sitting in an outdoor terrace, overlooking a lakeside park. The perky 30-something redhead in a matching pink suit beams at us.
"So, flowers? What do we think. There should be a main center flower, then everything else flanks it."
I glance at you shyly, gesturing for you to make some sort of input. In true maleness, you've refused to comment on any aspect of your spring wedding.
"Roses," you tell her. "Red roses."
I cough delicately and look at you, giggling.
"I'm allergic to roses, silly. Did you forget that?"
You silently nod your head and resume looking over the lake. It is a pretty view. It'll make a lovely photo backdrop. I look with you and ignore the crestfallen look on the planner's face.
February 24th, 2016
It's just over a month to wedding day. I'm asking you to write your vows now. I've written mine. I read them to you. Two cups of hot chocolate sit between us.
"Well, what do you think?"
"Do I have to make vows? Can't we just say the take each other in happiness and health and stuff, get it over with?"
I smile indulgently at your wining and shake my head.
"I think it's more personal this way. I want to know how you feel about me."
August 31st, 2018
You never did make your vows.
I tease you, looking through our wedding album. I touch the picture of me in my dress, as though I can feel the soft white lace under my fingers again.
I glance up at you, you're seated across the table, reading the paper and playing with the straw of the peppermint iced tea I made you.
You don't actually like peppermint. You don't drink it unless it's the only thing left around to drink. But I like it and you don't make the drinks. And I've never once noticed that you left all the drinks untouched. You never even told me you don't like peppermint.
I smile happily at you ever day. You finally noticed me, finally loved me. You saw me for who I was and chose me.
Most days, it's great. You smile back at me. We cook and clean together, cuddle up to watch movies.
Only the small, brief pause each time before you say: 'I love you, too' shows this isn't what you wanted. Only the little faraway look when I talk about our future shows you see something different.
I get up from the photos to pour out the now room-temperature iced tea.
