I need to tell this story. Either as a message to myself 5 years ago, whispering, “You are right. You are right,” or as a warning to my future self — a foreshadowing of the recurring manipulation, a motif of “You can’t make this shit up.”

Already my recollection is fuzzy. So, perhaps I need to write it as proof that something happened in this abyss of after.

You found me on my walk. I didn’t know who was walking quickly up the hill, and I was annoyed to have to restrain the dog for another passerby. But it was you, out of breath, grimacing.

I thought someone had died. I asked, “Are you okay?”

I asked, “What’s wrong?”

You said, and already my memory is doubting this, but you said, “I love you. I came to say I love you and I’m sorry.”

I was a cartoon of astonishment. Slack jaw. Narrowing eyes.

“What?”

You said words like, “You’re wonderful, It was a cancer, I let a cancer take me and It’s my fault. I take full responsibility, I do. But it was a cancer brought by others. You are the only true thing in my life.”

I said, “You wanna go back in time and tell yourself that?”

I said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

I said, “I’m the same person I was before. I look the same.”
You said, “I don’t care about any of that.”

I said, “I hear the words you are saying, but I also hear the words you are not saying.”

You said, as if from a Hallmark script, “I don’t want to give you too many compliments, or you will not believe any of them.”

I told you not to worry.

You said I was beautiful, cozy, smart, an amazing writer, mother, teacher. You said I was strong. You thanked me and apologized for how I had to hold everything together always, I did it all.

I reminded you that you said you can only be with thin women, that I wasn’t the gold standard, that you could only fuck women who were not fat.

You were incredulous. “I said that?”

(You did.)

You apologized again, told me how beautiful I am, how amazing, how if only I could be your wife again.

I asked if you were having another midlife crisis. Maybe you are lonely? Do you miss being married? It’s easier having a wife than not having a wife.

You insisted that wasn’t it, that you knew I’d think that. That you have gone over every scenario of what I would say. You said you’ve been waiting a year to be brave enough to come talk to me. You almost did it at our son’s college drop off, you almost did it at our daughter’s graduation. You almost sent me emails outlining every kind thing I’ve ever done.

I told you I’m not kind anymore.

You were worried I was dating someone.

I said, “Don’t you remember how you broke me and my entire self image?”

We laughed though too. It was the realest conversation I’ve had with you in over 5 years.

I did agree to coffee to talk. That sounded fine and safe. It’s odd to imagine feeling okay with coffee and conversation with you, but I do.

I said, what else were you hoping?

You said, “I can think of lots of things.”

Was that flirting?

You said you didn’t know what made you take the chance this time, but it was probably how cute I looked in my jacket.

“This?” I asked, remembering an old road trip joke, from 3 decades ago, pulling at my comfy checkered jacket.

“I’m just comfortable.”

“Oh, you’re just comfortable…” you said, smiling.

I really miss old jokes.

I really miss you.

But it’s too late. Isn’t that the kicker?

Also this was two weeks ago, no coffee, no contact, just me and my annoying feelings, reminding myself that I already burnt all your shit.

Damn, I hate being inside the long tragic ending to a love story. What. A. Drag.