April 23, 2004

You’re not sure what to give her. Over the last few weeks she’s given you a pair of socks, endless caresses, a poem, a warm kiss when you needed it, and more intensity than you could handle. She even gave you her middle name one night when you grew tired of yours. Now that she’s leaving, you want to give her something beautiful and awkward in return, so you ask for advice.

“Give her something permanent,” Amy suggests, “like clothes.”

You dislike clothes and permanence, so you decide to offer her a red rose, fragile and ephemeral. You pull it out of your bag when you meet her at noon as one would pull a rabbit from a hat. The rose is magic and makes her eyes wrinkle into a smile as she hugs you warmly.

Say “goodbye,” softly, and talk for an hour about everything. She’s going to do her Master’s in Popular Culture at Brock — if you become popular she’ll study you too. You tell her about alienation and longing. She understands and tells you about Goethe and letters so melancholy they make you feel like shit. You pull a strand of her hair gently and she watches you with radiant eyes — the hair is not coming out.

She’s late for a performance, so you walk with her into the sunshine and down University Avenue. In front of a coffee shop you hug her again, and because you can’t bear to gently fold people in your arms, you pat her back awkwardly with your left hand. You say goodbye again and promise to go see her this summer. With her red rose in her hand, she walks down the street, and smiling brightly you turn around to enter the coffee shop, nearly smashing your face in the glass door.

That’s what you get for saying goodbye.