3

The color of magnolia blossoms and climbing ivy is almost overwhelming but the lights of New York City drown everything out in a haze of illumination. I'm leaning against the window with the sun dipping below the horizon of the city's skyline and the rain streaking down the glass, leaving behind tracks as thick as tears.

There's a knock on my door and you say my name, whispered, a question – did you think I wouldn't let you in? We've only been dancing around each other for half a lifetime, too afraid, too cowardly, to bring up old ghosts and to notice the shells of our old selves we have become – or was that just me? You can come in, you know. I miss it, too.

"Kate," you say, louder this time. You're standing on the threshold to my room, on the threshold to my life, and don't you know I heard you the first time?

Your eyes are crystal blue and your thousand-watt smile is as brilliant as ever. Has it really been this long since we last saw each other? Everything is different about you from the man I remember kneeling by the swing set asking me to stay. The memory burns through my skin – this must be what heartbreak feels like.

"Did you want something?" I say because we were never good at formalities but your smile doesn't falter for a second because you know I don't mean it. I don't mean half the things I say to you, and the things I do say I mean twice as much but that's okay because timing has never been our forte, has it?

"Kate, I –" You pause, a beat stuffed with silence, and I have to look away because you've got that look in your eyes again, the one that makes it hard for me to breathe, the one that I extinguished by walking away.

"What are you doing?" you ask eventually and it's so below par I almost laugh. That wasn't what you were going to ask and we both know it. You're the writer, aren't you? You should know what to say with your dramatic flourishes and voice intonations. I'm the one who has trouble with the words. But you never seemed to mind.

But it was nice of you to ask. I wasn't doing anything. Nothing important, anyway. Sitting by the window looking out at the skyline, the sixteen-year-old girl in me crying tears of joy because it's nice to be back. Thinking about the life I left behind – the life I could have had with you. Why does everything come back to you? Do you even know how many memories about you are embedded under my skin?

"Nothing, really." I reply and that seems to break the spell. You suddenly bring your hands in front of you to reveal a bottle of wine. The kind that I like. I bring out two mugs – hotel rooms don't carry wine glasses, unfortunately – and you pour it to the brim.

"Cheers," you say and clink your mug to mine. The wine is a silky Bordeaux that evaporates like smoke on our tongues. Your eyes start darting around and I stifle a smile. It's a hotel room. You won't find any personal touches. The only thing this room serves to remind us is that this is temporary. I'll be gone soon – again. It makes me want to whisk you back to my flat in DC, show you the life I'm living, the life I'm loving, but perhaps not as much as I love you.

The heady scent of the wine in chipped mugs colors everything in pleasant amber tones and I'm only dimly aware of you leaning against me, close enough so I can feel the heat radiating from your arm.

"Are you excited?" I eventually ask because I'm getting tired of the silence. (But isn't that what I do? Get tired of the silence so I replace it with running? Can sorry even begin to cover how I feel?)

"I'm one of the best men. It's my job to be excited." And there's a flash of that grin. Did I mention how much I've much I've missed that grin, that wit, everything that makes you you? I thought you would hate me but you're still smiling at me so I guess I'm doing something right.

"I don't know they chose to get married here. Espo grew up Baltimore and Lanie's from New Jersey." I murmur, drawing our attention to the view outside my window. The rain has cleared and the skyline is luminescent with light, with new beginnings.

"It's a beautiful city." You say, pointlessly, I might add. "Why not get married here? I did. Twice, I might add."

"That doesn't exactly improve your image." I tell you, hiding the smile that's threatening to burst out of me.

"They're really happy together." You continue in the same inane vein. At this point, I have to roll my eyes because this is going nowhere, just like the other three conversations we have had in the past year. Without bothering to dignify you with a response, I turn back to the wine and finish off the whole mug.

"Slow down," you hum from my side – do you belong anywhere else? "We've still got the whole night."

Well, that sounds promising. But I've learned long ago to not get my hopes up, especially when it concerns you. Our relationship is battle of hopeful desires and tentative movements, each of us exchanging ripostes with quiet ease, circling around each other, shy and tip toeing the line. Balance is crucial when it comes to you and me.

The silence stretches on and this time, you're the one who breaks first.

"Your hair looks different." You tell me haltingly, like this is our first year of our partnership and our actions are bordering the line between 'friendly' and 'flirting', though I doubt you're flirting now. Nothing between us is the same as it once was. It won't be ever again.

But I can't help but think that it's changing for the better, that we're changing, that we're growing and shifting and developing together until I think that we may very well end up to be, well, inseparable.

"I grew it out." I watch as you finger a strand of hair and skim a line across my cheek, using that tendril as a paintbrush to swirl our history across my skin, an invisible tattoo that only we could see.

"I like it," you say simply and it's stupid how ridiculously pleased I feel when you said that.

You grab another strand of my hair and begin swirling patterns on my shoulder. Lines, circles, shapes, words, I can feel it all, like they're engraved on my skin for all eternity. You play with each curl, wrapping it around your finger before painting pictures with it and it burns, every time.

"What are you drawing?" I ask, curious despite myself, and you pause, a curl hovering over my unpainted neck.

"I'm not drawing anything." You say, twirling it around with a glint in your eyes that tells me you're enjoying this. "I'm writing."

"What are you writing?" I ask, feeling like a parrot and raising my eyebrow in challenge. I'm standing stock still because I can feel your breath warming the shell of my ear and it's taking all of my control not to shiver.

You don't answer, dramatic bastard that you are, and simply bring a curl down on my arm and writes in large, loopy strokes so I can feel every letter, every swirl, a single word etched in my skin right down to the flourish you add in the end. Always.

"Good job," I say casually as if that comes even remotely close to everything I want to say. "A bit shaky on the landing, though."

You drop my hair but you're laughing and you're looking at me with that look in your eyes and I wish you would stop because it's stupidly hard for me to resist you when you're looking at me like that. It reminds me too much of a white dress, diamonds, happily ever after. Wishful thinking, that's what I tell myself every day.

"You should probably go to bed." I say softly because I know if you stay any longer, I'll break. Simple as that.

You get up and slide out of the couch, your eyes fixed on mine, brimming with something that looks so much like love, I have to look away. "Probably," you agree and head for the door. It takes every ounce of willpower in me not to ask you stay here tonight, tomorrow, possibly forever.

You pause one last time. Breathe. I stop. It's my turn to wait now.

"Until tomorrow, Kate."

The door click shut and you're gone before I have a chance to say goodbye. I'm left standing there with two empty mugs of wine as the only reminder you were here.

Once upon a time, you would be here with me, but our time has come and gone and now you're three rooms and a lifetime away. Isn't this how the mighty fall?

Slowly, I sink back down and start cleaning up.

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