Untitled Feelings

The thought of rejoining Tinder has crossed my mind too often now. “But you hate Tinder!” — I told myself hoping I wouldn’t fall in that trap again. “But you are leaving the country!” — I reply to myself after a little thought sneaked through saying, “It could be fun!” And the mental dialogue goes on and on while I try to deceive myself. Deceive myself. Because I know this is not about Tinder. Neither about leaving the country. It is all about leaving…about leaving…leaving…

About leaving…him. Truth be told, I won’t miss England deeply. There is a melancholy in the air I probably never got used to, and wouldn’t get used to even if I spend one hundred years here. Of course I will miss my baked beans (Whoever had the idea that eating beans for breakfast was okay, you have my respect), the Gothic architecture that always surprises me with a weird-faced gargoyle, and some other less memorable bits. But honestly, the bit of England I will miss the most is one of her sons.

I do not love him, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes… sometimes you just get used to someone. To the point that I would advocate for the existence of a rule for casual relationships, like a temporal limit or a cuddle limit, or a fight limit where a computer-like window popped out saying, “You’re actually ‘getting used’ to this person, would you like to continue?” and you were warned that you were entering a dangerous territory, where you proceeded at your own risk. But anyway, who I am trying to fool here? I would have clicked “yes” anyway. Because I am courageous, or because I am a fool… More likely the second one.

Because only a fool would have replied to “This just doesn’t work” with “So let’s meet one last time to say goodbye.” But I guess he is a fool too, because otherwise… otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed. Otherwise he wouldn’t have jumped in a two-hour coach ride just to see me, one last time.

Honestly, I don’t know if it’s because it was the last time, like the moribund who has a sudden spike of health, but it was great. Not only because it was the first time ever he gave me a gift (but that was also a surprise!), but there was something else. Maybe it was the conversation about our teen years, or maybe the cuddle, too much cuddling, or maybe the cooking together, or maybe because there was no hurry to leave, or maybe it was just the memories of our firsts dates, coming on and on between our sheets… And soon enough my head gets full of “maybes”, it even slips to “maybe we could still be something.”

And as that night went by, I saw the sands of time running in an imaginary hourglass. Running, as I kissed him goodnight. Running, as I woke up and saw him quietly reading. Running, as I pretended I was still sleeping. Running, as he puts the book down and roll closer. Running, as I saw him eating his toast. Running, as I saw him buttoning his shirt. Running, as the end, infallibly, approchs.

I wondered if that was really our last time. I deeply wished that was not our last time. We kissed timidly as we started to turn into strangers. I finally walk him to the bus stop. Those last 5 minutes. We kiss again. This time, a goodbye. I walk back home alone.

I open the door and his perfume still impregnated in the air, but I honestly didn’t need any help to think about him. And still, there was the perfume. The perfume and a found-shortly-after belt. Did he forgot that on purpose? — I wonder. Will he be back for this belt? — I wonder. Will he ever be back? — I wonder. And while I wonder time runs straight ahead in tyranny, swallowing my last days in this land.