goodbye
[About the evening my lover left my city in mid-june, written a few weeks after.]
A few hours before he left this city, we were in search of a good crepe on Mont-Royal Avenue. He was chattering unusually, seemingly trying to draw out this blip in time or to elongate the sidewalk as we wandered along hand-in-hand. Making distractions by grasping each second tightly. I was indulging him, walking almost sideways to have a better view of his face. Maybe, in laughing as he laughed, I was mimicking his desperation in straying us further from the ultimate fact of his leaving, the play proving we shared this heartbreak. I still haven't figured out if it hurts more knowing when it will end or letting it end unexpectedly. Knowing ruins the near-endless possibilities held in the not-knowing. Not knowing rewards the wait because it remains unconscious until the end comes. If I know the end is going to come, I can do nothing else but wait, and in thinking about the wait, I trap myself in it. He ended up buying himself a crepe with vanilla ice cream and pistachio bits on top. He was protective of his crepe when I asked for a bite, but caved in as he eventually does, happily. He told me he could have gotten me my own crepe, but I didn't want any crepe; I wanted his. It tasted better because he chose it, and held the plate as I scooped the dough into my mouth. After, we wandered elsewhere aimlessly. The sun had not set yet, the day was not even over, establishing no visible finality to his departure. Only through language was that evening significantly different from the previous ones; only by our shared knowledge of its imminent end.