A delicate freighted silence looms between us, a train of moments boiling with a complex amalgam of emotions. We sit across from each other at a small round table, the sounds of a coffee shop swirling around us: chattering voices, milk being steamed, Miles Davis. Her head is tipped down so her black ringlets curtain her face, luminous jade-chip eyes downcast, sad and thoughtful. She lifts her white porcelain mug of green tea to her lips slowly.
“This isn't working,” she says. Her voice is low, musical, lilting. I love her voice. Even now, as she tears herself away from me, her voice is melodic and lovely, every word sung sweetly. “I'm sorry, Jack, I care for you, but we're just not right for each other.” I hear her cliche words, I know what they mean, and I feel the ache, the cutting wrenching embarrassing heartbreak they bear, but I don't want to acknowledge their truth. Her eyes, when they meet mine, tell the rest of the story. They are distant. She is already gone.
I mimic her by sipping my coffee, searching for the right words in response. I look at her, trying to capture a last image, and I sink into a white-capped swell of memories:
Lush soft pale skin pressed hot against mine, curves and graceful rhythmic pulses of ecstasy, her spine arching above me as she utters a low breathless moan, whispering to me in the muzzy calm of the afterglow; her hand dry and warm in mine, red smiling lips I love to kiss.
And there she goes now, walking away from me, her swaying hips hypnotic, and I am left hurt and stunned and still burdened with an aching desire for all of her.
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