June
Miranda skimmed unenthusiastically through her advance copy of Runway. The truth was she abhorred this first look at the finished product; she found it the worst kind of torture. Too late to catch any oversights, she could only glare helplessly at all the previously unnoticed typos or color leaks.
Looking through this issue was particularly harrowing. She actually liked the Pier Giacomo label, and wonder of wonders, she had found the original spread quite lovely. Giving it up was difficult, so difficult she let Nigel take the helm of the new shoot. She had her plate full enough dealing with Irv, trying to justify the hundred thousand dollars worth faux pas.
They had featured Stella McCartney, instead. Nigel, thankfully, came up with a passable idea: NYC independent galleries. It was cheap, which mollified Irv. It was, by definition, edgy which made it easier to swallow. Sponsoring the alternative culture made Runway look good, the galleries were thrilled with the publicity. A win-win situation, in the end.
Miranda looked at the feature again. Yes, Nigel did well. Stella's ephemeral fabrics looked good in the off beat context. She was particularly pleased with the Suits spread, burgundy coming out perfectly on the dull, flat black and white background. She studied the page more carefully, forcing herself to look beyond the model. A boring white panel printed with overblown Times New Roman lettering and the awkward line drawings of …a rocket? Also a fat snake? And a rectangle with a number on it.
The words on the panel were blurred but still readable. For the first time, she focused on the substance and hoped to God Nigel thought of checking it for inappropriate content.
There was a nice symmetry to the spread. If you tried, you could probably put the most of the story on the panel together.
She checked the caption again. The Walsen gallery. Museum of Broken Relationships. A photo of a silly smile flashed through her mind. Ah.
She squinted and read the author's signature next to the model's booted ankle.
Suddenly, reading the complete story was of the paramount importance.
"Janice." Miranda called, forcing her voice steady. "Arrange a private viewing in Walsen gallery tonight."
For six years, it was all about Him.
And then, suddenly it wasn't.
Getting rid of his tattered T-shirt was no trouble at all. Nor were the two mismatched and frankly, stinky socks I found under the bed. The photos were easy as well.
I clicked them away, to a New folder named "Old".
In a bout of benevolence, I sent him the rest of the things he forgot to pack. His treasured Alessi corkscrew, an unused baseball glove, two fancy cookbooks. Well, all except the umbrella, because it was raining and I needed it to walk to the post office.
I don't have anything His that's worth putting on display. There's nothing left. We did not end up enemies, nor did we promise to stay friends. There's nothing to purge, no pain to cleanse.
For six months, it was all about Her.
And it still is.
The funny part? We were not even involved, so there was no relationship to break.
Why is it then, that the only things I could justifiably place here are Hers?
A fancy pen she favored until it failed her.
A scarf that still holds the traces of her smell.
A card key to her hotel room, because there was no opportunity to give it back.
The mementos of my Broken relationship? I could give them away without a blink. Thus, there is no point in giving them to you.
The things I should put here, I find I still can not.
You get the traces, just like I did.
Andy S.
