It has always been there

In that living room, not lived in, but just a room, with a sofa, a chair and a book shelf, there was a bulls horn hung on the ceiling, books, neatly piled, stored and sorted, on the bookshelf, some photos, old, family photos, of him, his family, his parents, and his siblings. There was a black and white photo, of his diseased father, he was smiling in the photo, looking back. “He had his father’s smile.” I remembered thinking.

There was an enclosed cabinet to the side. I don’t know if there was a TV inside, or some junk, maybe junk he did not want others to see. 

"You are very neat." I used to tell him. He would smile and say, "You knew that about me already."

"Did I?" I didn’t recall ever sharing that information with him.

"Is that new?" I’d often point something on that bookshelf, discovering something that I thought to be an addition.

"No, it has already been there." He would always give the same line.

That back and forth came about every time I saw him.

Once he was going through the shelf, looking for a book for me, just before my trip, and he couldn’t find it, so he handed something else to me, for me to read.

A few books lying on the clothes bureau in the bedroom. Never been touched, but stacked just so, as if they were part of the staging. He had a rarely used bedroom, The same towels, soft, egg york colored towels. I was handed one when I got out of the shower. The same towel, presumably, used by his girlfriend, wife, or other female visitors. 

I was always a visitor. I played a role, a role that sometimes had the name of “sweetie”, “baby”, or “hon”. 

When the days were getting shorter and nights were getting longer, I wondered if and when I would become a past tense. I would be told as a story by him to other women after me, and he’d say “I used to date this Asian woman.” And to make the conversation slightly more suggestive, he might add additional details like “She had unusually large rack for her race.” He would omit the fundamental truth. #1. We never dated, we fucked only; #2. the past tense was false, because those statements were meant for the next woman, a present tense would deter the wild eyed new victim. 

I once asked him to tell me stories about a few relationships before me. He gave me a few broad stroke descriptives: married, divorcing, single but needed a relationship he could not offer. “They wanted more than I could offer. They were not independent, they did not have a full life like you.” He concluded while drinking his wine. 

I began to imagine living independent lives together, but apart, with him.

That imagination became so vivid that I thought it would be doable.

Then one day he vanished. He did not say why, but he was gone.

The next time we saw each other, we were barely friends. 

"So you moved back." He asked.

"Yes I did." Recently.

"How’s your job? Your family?" He tried to find words.

"Both are well." Really.

"Did you remember the first time?" He asked.

"Which one?" I was not pretending to forget. I had already forgotten.

"It was exactly seven years ago." He added.

"I have a child now." He thought to drop that bomb on me.

"Really? Fantastic." I had mine, they were grown.

"I liked you very much. I always did." His conclusion.

"You used to tell me that you loved me." I smiled. I remembered that much.

"Well then." His hair was gray. He had not shaven. He looked small, weak, and tiresome.

The leaves were brown, the air was crisp, the seven years made everything so washed out. 

"What now?" He leaned over to kiss me. 

His lips were cold, colorless and foreign.

"I had left a facial cleanser tube in your place. The last time I was there. It was French." I missed my French facial cleaner. It came from Douglas store, in Beaune.

"Yes, it’s still there." He remembered. It was seven years ago.

"I’d like to have it back sometime." I wanted what’s mine back.

"The next time when you come over." He promised to keep it for me.

There was a black and red backpack by his foot.

I wanted to ask, “Is that new?”

But I already knew the answer.

He would say, “It has always been there.” 

Then what?