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I have a cup that’s deep and wide. Blue. I bought it in montreal at some home décor chain on Ste. Catherine. I bought it specifically for us to drink coffee from on cold mornings. I didn’t buy it to slip slugs of gin by my lips in a stream of March moonlight 2 years later. Come to think of it, when I bought this cup, things were already pretty much fucked between us. There were already occasions where I felt dead inside and couldn’t call up the energy I’d once put behind driving us. I’d already stopped thinking of you as the one who might be the one, who might save me and love me and help me see the world straight again. Or for the first time even. I’d given up on that already. You knelt between my legs, having pulled down my cosy blue pajamas and you were trying to tell me something. Whispering into my shell and listening for an answer. I had no answer to give you. I’d done all the talking I was going to for the time being. All being equal, I’m not sure I was right to give up like that. I mean feelings go through dead patches, or more aptly, areas of white noise. And you can’t hear them for all the other crap that’s washing through your guts at the same time. But that doesn’t actually mean they’re not there. Anyway, I’d stopped believing in miracles after you’d disappointed me 4 valentine’s days, birthdays and anniversaries later. So I made you leave. And I’m glad I did. Because your being gone made me crazy with loneliness, which in turn showed me that I hadn’t really been lonely when you were there even though I thought I was. And I bounded and hoped and never found anything better. Mind you, that’s about as useful to me now as you were then because you’re out of reach. You always were but even more so now because I can’t even pretend you love me now. I packed up a little black suitcase and I flew 13 hours across a variety of water. When I landed, I still felt alone but at least the world seemed in order. I mean, that far from home, you’re supposed to be alone so it feels a bit easier. Not like the natural agenda of the world has been thrown out of whack and you’re sitting all lopsided on a bus wondering what stop to get off at that’s going to feel less hollow. At least the whole world was hollow in Greece. I could walk up white stepped cliffs and see things with some perspective. My hands felt very small there. And innocent of possible mistakes. In fact, I was so pleased on my new perch that I wanted to change everything about myself. Suddenly, the clothes I’d brought with me were just the clothes I used to wear when everything felt weird. I wanted proper, solid, down to earth clothes. I bought a scarf as blue as the ocean and a new, white dress. For 14 days, that’s all I wore. I washed the white dress in the sink of the villa I stayed in until it yellowed to a hazy cream because the water there is so filthy with silt. But I didn’t mind and I continued to walk up and down the cliffs like a grecian ghost and I avoided conversations that would disprove my immateriality. Eventually, when the ticket I kept tucked into my nightstand drawer told me I had to, I took a bus to the airport. I had changed back into my Canadian clothes, but I waivered at security. Could I just stay here, I wondered? Walk slowly backwards back out into the early evening sun and disappear here? My bag had already boarded the plane but that’s okay. I didn’t really need anything in it. I could buy another white dress and blue scarf. I could make something else happen. Of course I didn’t and really, the moment barely bears remembering since the idea and the sensibleness that clouded it took only a few seconds to register and take effect. I put my jean jacket on and had one last smell of salt air. I got on the plane. Since then, I feel like I’ve gained some distant perspective. A little at least. Hopes dashed, but I understand now that hoping against hope is something only children and idiots do. I am back here to be an adult. To carry on with my life and think about things other than love and loving. Plenty of people do. I sort of hoped that my eyes might have changed a little too, but as it turns out they haven’t really. I don’t like to look at myself in the mirror anymore. This is new. This morning, I draped my white sea-smelling dress over the bedroom mirror like some backward kind of mourning. When I look at myself, I can’t seem to help it. I stare into my eyes or look at my body and the old voice creeps forward. Looms right behind my eyes. It says “why not you?” and it tries to give me hope. I’m a pretty woman. I’m smart and I’m attractive. But I’ve started to suspect that the voice doesn’t know what the fuck it’s talking about. Maybe it doesn’t mean to spread malicious gossip, but I think someone needs to explain the facts to it once and for all. And the facts are that I’m 28 now. I’m softening and falling slowly to the ground. My hair is beginning to show the light strands of gray that have, until now, hidden themselves graciously among my black hair. As I begin to unravel and grow old, too old now for a youthful sprint toward love, I am finding it more and more painful to hear that hope in my head. Because it’s of no use to me. I have to find other things to think about. *** I have a cup that’s deep and wide. Blue as the greek sky. I didn’t buy it to slip slugs of gin by my lips in a stream of March moonlight. This isn’t what I’d intended to put in my cup at all.
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