July 04, 2005

About three months ago I was in the library on a sunny Sunday afternoon waiting for Laura’s shift to end. Having nothing better to do, I looked through the bookstacks for something to read, anything. After about five minutes of browsing, I closed my eyes and picked a book at random as I often do. Byron. “I haven’t read that ages,” I murmured, and returned to my seat with the book under my arm.

I sat down, opened the book, and saw Barbara’s name written in smudged, green ink on the first page. Of all the books that were on those shelves I picked the one that was hers all those years ago. I took one breath of air and let it fall inside me — my whole body felt empty as though I had no internal organs and that breath kept traveling through me as through a black hole.

It all started four years ago. We were kids — we didn’t know shit. We thought romanticism was cool. All that intensity turned both of us on and we let it fuck with our minds: we talked about Blake and orgies and suffering. She was my first girlfriend — I brought her flowers and softly kissed the freckles on her nose; they were incredibly cute. For a brief time at the end of October she was the whole world for me. Her eyes were so vibrant and blue they consumed me.

So she took me into her home and her heart. She showed me her marvellous collection of books and we stared at them for hours, reading passages to each other in her room. We humped against each other in the dark, afraid of ourselves and our sexuality, and then we read Cohen. Her breasts were soft and delicate. In the morning we watched blue skies from her yard and ate oranges. October was warm and tender.

Then something happened. Winter came and she changed. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, unsure of her feelings and her mind. I gave her yellow roses when we broke up. “Do you want to be friends?” she asked. “No.” In a burst of cruelty I pushed her away and I wouldn’t talk to her even months later when I saw how she suffered. I wanted to hurt her. I didn’t find out about her depression until later.

She died on the 3rd of July. Pills. I didn’t find out about it until I came back to school in the fall and my whole world shattered. For weeks I could do nothing but cry. I flunked most of my courses; the pain was endless. I didn’t think people died like that — from having their hearts broken. She was 21, wrote ravishing letters, and loved poetry.

After a while the pain went away and I became slightly more human. It’s been three years now, but I never understood her death; I never understood her.

That day, in the library, when Laura came to find me I was silent and sombre. Soft light was streaming through the window behind me illuminating the bookcases. “I must tell you a story,” I said. I told her about death, nymphs with wonderful breasts, and how everything goes to shit in an instant. As I talked, I kept moving my hands over Laura’s face, nose, ears, trying to make sure she was still there. My insides were warm and mushy.

Yesterday was the day she died, and suddenly all that comes back to me. It’s always like this … life marches on and when I least expect it I look behind me to catch a mournful echo, a sigh, a glimpse of her red hair in the sunset.