Jessica Ste. Croix- Writing Exercise #5

It surprised her to see him there, but it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t been hoping for it. He was sitting on a couch in the lobby, reading a magazine, wearing a striped button-up shirt. The expensive clothing looked the same on him, which was strange only because she had seen him not long ago and his appearance then had been more jagged, his jaw more square and his shoulders broader. Suddenly though, behind a copy of GQ, he was youthful again and she couldn’t explain how. Always trying to be the adult, she thought, even though you’ve only just become one. He had forced himself into it before his time, leaving home and trying to make something of himself. Getting a job on the other side of the country and cutting ties with almost everyone at home. Then, because he had never been so self-sufficient and could never enjoy the act of purchasing pricey items with his own money (or anyone else’s), it became his passion to take full pleasure in material things. Wearing expensive clothing, driving a nice car, eating in the best restaurants. To him, it was a matter of culture, and he made efforts to learn about these things, to know why these things were better than average. He looked up then and laid the magazine open in his lap when he saw her walking toward him. As usual, he didn’t seem surprised to see her. Hello, she said. What’s new? Alain Delon was a beautiful man, he said. Well, still is I suppose. That’s not new. But I’ll let it go if you tell me why you’re here. She sat next to him and he put his arm around her. His face still had not changed back to that older version. It was still young and the creases around his eyes when he smiled were the ones she remembered from years ago- summers squinting in the sunlight. She put her head on his shoulder and read looked at the centerfold in his lap. The shiny pages reflected the light above them. Does it matter? he said. We’re here just the same. Let’s talk about something else. Ask me something. Ok, she said. Do you remember things? Do you remember romance? I don’t remember much. I do remember that. But there are many things that could fall under romance. Be more specific. Walking arm in arm down the street? Linking? Yes, I remember linking arms. Remember how we used to sit for hours and watch people? How we would make up their stories? Of course. I remember watching people. We used to have fun didn’t we? she asked. I think so. No. I’m sure we did. We had the most fun. You’re right. We did have the most fun. She lifted her head and looked at him, wondering if things would ever change back and hoping they wouldn’t. She slipped her arm into his and he smiled. As people passed, their eyes followed. What about the airport? Do you remember that? He held his breath. His eyes didn’t leave the man passing by, chattering away to someone invisible through a headset. The man walked with one shoulder lower than the other, weighed down by the briefcase he was carrying. We were in many airports. Only one. Many times. Remember the last time? Yes, he said, looking down. I do. Why didn’t we do it? she asked. Why didn’t we do any of the things we talked about? He shrugged and looked up again at the people weaving back and forth through the lobby. You know something strange? she said. What? You look different than I remember. I mean, you look like the way I remember you from before. Way back in my head, before the very last time. And the time before that. Before… when we were an “us”. He nodded. You look that way too. You know, from before. Long before. You know what else is strange? she asked. What? I remember everything. I remember the way your lips felt on mine, how your neck felt under my own, how soft your hair was, how much I liked it when it was longer, and even the way your belly button looked. I especially remember your shoulders. You gave great hugs. You gave great kisses, he said. They didn’t talk for a little while. She rested on his shoulder and watched the revolving doors of the hotel spin, people circulating in and out. Other things began to spin as well. The paintings on the walls, the tall palm-like plants and couch across the lobby that was identical to the one they were sitting on. If fact, the entire opposite wall mirrored them with perfect symmetry, with the exception of their own bodies sitting as imposters in the scene. This all began to spin as well. She knew it was ending. Age would come back to them. Memories would leave them. She turned just before he looked up and slid, anonymous among the other faces, through the revolving doors.