A Sacrament
You hang up and the phone goes quiet. I look blankly at the wall in front of me. Your voice lingers in my ears as I walk slowly over to the window that looks down Avenue A from my Stuyvesant Town apartment. The tiny people far below me walk on through their lives, oblivious of each other's joys and struggles. I turn to the stereo, pull a record out of its sleeve, and put it on. Then walk into the kitchen, pick up a dish, and begin to wash it. After a moment, I put it down again. I dry my hands and go back to the stereo and change the record. I wash and dry the cutlery and the other two plates, and then I sit down again.
A few hours later, I am back at the window when I hear a light knock at the front door. I walk across the apartment and look through the peephole. I never use the peephole, but I see you standing outside, shifting your weight from foot to foot. Even in the dark and distorted image provided by the peephole, you are beautiful.
I open the door. You take two steps into the apartment, open your arms to me, and I hold you close. You hold on to me tightly, and we are both still. After a few moments, I walk with you into the living room and I take your coat from you. It is cold outside, and you cross your arms across your body. We sit down, and I turn to you and ask,
“You came here to say goodbye, didn’t you?”
You look back at me without speaking. Your eyes are pleading for understanding, wishing for a different solution to this moment, a solution in which no hearts are harmed.
Finally, you speak. Your voice is heavy with exhaustion and defeat. It really is goodbye this time, you say.
You reach into your bag and pull out a bundle of papers. You hold it with both hands.
“Here,” you say, offering it to me like it is some kind of sacrament.
I take the papers, which are tied together with twine in a tight stack. There are scores of letters and notes that I have written to you over the last two years. Some are maybe only three lines long, others three pages long, each one written by hand with the same fountain pen. Some are carefully composed on fine translucent airmail paper, others are quickly scratched on the back of discarded student work. Each letter has been put in an envelope and mailed to wherever you were in the world at that time, addressed to whatever fanciful pseudonym you were using at that time. I look down at two years of my life, distilled into ink and paper and bound in twine.
“No, these are yours. I wrote them for you.” I say, and I hand them back to you. You take the stack and lay it on the table.
Some minutes later, you walk back out into the cold evening, and I will never see you again. A year passes, and when I am moving out of that apartment, I find that bundle of letters tucked behind the larger books on my bookshelf.
A sacrament.
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