8. Montana
This whole week had been a nightmare. It couldn't be real, this couldn't be happening. Two days ago he swore he had had a stroke; he was paralyzed as he thought his eyes must have been deceiving him. He had been staring at the wall in his dark apartment when he heard the door bell. He jumped up his heart lurched in hope that it would be her, coming back to talk it out. He was ready to grovel, apologize for the 50 times he had called her each day she was gone.
He had outlines of apologies all prepared, a million reasons why his life was better with her in it, why he would marry her tomorrow if it made her happy. He couldn't even remember their argument from the pain of being without her. He had already started his apology when he realized it was the mailman with a package for him to sign. Montana the postmark read. Was it an explanation? A note saying she need a few days at home, in her childhoodbedroom to relax, before she'd be ready to forgive him?
When the postman handed him a small box along with the other mail, his heart sank, she wouldn't need a whole box for a little note like that. His hands were shaking as he tore into the box and when his fingers brushed velvet he hoped that the sensation was lingering nerve damage from his previously broken hand. He took a deep breath and pulled out the velvet box. Of course he recognized it. He had carried it around in his pocket for weeks before he finally gained the courage to ask her. He didn't need to open the box, the pain of his heart break was enough without the visual reminder that he had lost her.
He sobbed. He drank. He stared. He raged. Finally he curled up on her side of the bed desperately trying to drink in her lingering scent.As the sun set, making the desperate rays of sun dancing across the wall he was reminded of another sun set, her laughter, the smell of popcorn and saltwater and the warmth of her embrace. He jumped up and scrambled through a photo album she had left. He hesitated. This was his only copy, if she was truly angry and she ripped it up it would be lost forever. Then he realized that these memories, her scent, her taste, her warmth were so firmly implanted in his mind. Then he quickly rifled through the mail trying to find hers, after all he would need a pretense for sending her a photo. This exquisite memory of their time together. A recollection of the best days of his life, those spent with her. His wish for them tomorrow. She would know. She would know exactly how he felt, exactly what thoughts, feelings this photo would conjure.