November Nights' Tale

She wiped off the paint from her eyes. Certain colors don't have any resilience to rain. Especially when it pours down so loudly. She folded the napkin and placed it on the counter. Perhaps she wasn't ready to throw it away just yet. Emotional forecast indicated a little bit more drizzling to come. I guess she didn't want to take any chances. That's one of the few ways she differs from me. Me, I would have thrown it in the bin immediately. I'd find the presence of my waterfall remaining so vividly among us a bit unbearable. After watching in the mirror for a minute or two what was left of her, she allowed herself to descend. It broke my heart to watch her sit so still on the floor, but I let her be. We all need some rest sometimes, don't we? I sat beside her. And she asked me, "How will I do it? How will it happen"? So I told her the story:

It will happen slowly. Gradually. Like dismantling an installation. Like moving out from your home. Every morning, a small piece will disappear. Each one will leave; one at a time.
The scent will be the most impatient to go. You'll be surprised how easily it will be forgotten.
Next, it will be the touch: how his skin felt on your fingertips; how his touch made you shiver; how thick his hair became after the rain; how his bones dug into your chest when you lay down on him; how naturally smooth his nails were.
His voice will go next. You won't be able to hear him anymore. Words will stay, but the tone - the tone, the chord, the note, the rhythm: the melody will fade away until you won't be able to sing any longer.
This, I find most devastating: losing his voice, his music. What is life without any music... you know?
It won't be much longer before the silhouette will blur. Soon, you won't remember how tall he was. How high you had to raise yourself on tiptoe to kiss him.
Then, then his face will begin to disappear.
His nose, his cheekbones, his wrinkles, his color palette. Lips will go next. And finally, finally the eyes.
The eyes, I find hardest to let go. They tend to linger with you for a while, especially is he has a haunting gaze. And they always do. They always have a haunting gaze, don't they?
I always cry when the eyes leave me. I figure they take with them his soul: his soul, and maybe a certain piece of mine.
I curse at my mind in those moments. I hate my memory, for not holding on to the eyes; just the eyes, just the soul, just my soul, just a little while longer, for not even trying, just a little bit harder.
And with that last bit, he will be gone. He will have left you in peace. And you will inhale again.
But that's not the end of the story, is it? Otherwise it would be quite dull. No. Happy endings make bestsellers, not great classics. It's not the end of the story, because no one leaves forever. No, all great heroes like to return. And he will return. Just the day you forget, he will be back.
You will see him. You will see him one day, and with that one magnificent coincidence, all the pieces you said your farewells to will rush back, right back to that tiny black-hole in your memory.
And for an entire minute there, the pain will scream into your ears, and your blood will drain itself, pouring out of your eyes, and you will be, fully and completely, ruined.
It will last only a minute.
The blood will come back. The screaming will fade out. And your eyes, they will adjust to the light.
Your eyes will adjust - and your heart, well, it will catch up eventually. That, I can promise.
Every time you see him after that, the focus will become clearer and clearer. And one day...
One day he will appear in front of you, and you will look at him more clearly than ever. You will look at him, and you will rub your eyes. You will rub your eyes and you will look at him once again. And you will rub your heart. And you will look again. And you will feel: absolutely nothing.
You will feel nothing.
The process will be complete.
The pain, the love, the rush that sliced you into pieces and fed you to the abyss, it will be gone.
You will be free.
Like the wind. Like the waterfall. Like the snow.
You will be free.
Now this; this, I find to be the most tragic of them all.
To watch him, to hear him, to touch him: and to feel nothing.
Perhaps a little pain is good for you, you know? Like salt.


She smiled. She had liked the story. She had liked the end.
She got up and threw away the napkin. No more rain in the forecast. I would only be partially cloudy from here on. It was difficult to grasp at first, but then I understood much more clearly.
She never really like to have salt, you see. In certain ways, she was much stronger than me.