Ada ran into my ex yesterday. When she called to tell me about the encounter, I noted that we haven’t spoken in two and a half years, then tried not to think about it.
Later that evening, Ada and I went to a reading at Esperanza. I watched as two exes, now living in different cities, crossed the room to greet each other. Their kiss was polite, but when he touched her arm, gently, I could see that he cared for her, even though it is impossible.
After the reading, Ada and I ran into James at the Café. Ada and James are exes, and I listened as they talked, catching up on birthdays and mutual friends and the fate of the apartment they used to share. They even flirted a little, which is a kind of remembering.
After James went home, I thought about Phil, and how after he left, it was like we had never known each other at all. This is, I realize, the cut that won’t heal: that I loved someone for a long time but left no mark.
Lying in bed, tired but not sleeping, I knew in my bones that I have been afraid of love ever since. Not because it might end--really, it is a small miracle when it doesn’t--but because it might, in retrospect, mean nothing.
Then, I dreamt that I had phenomenally hot sex with someone I hardly know, and felt better.