From autumn to you

next to you

"Shall we get some tomatoes?"
"Let me choose, you always pick the ones that are too ripe. The green ones are better," I say, pushing him aside and approaching the vegetable stall.
He chuckles and steps back. "If you say so. I trust your judgement."
I pick out a dozen well-selected tomatoes and put them at the bottom of a bag before placing it in the cart. "We're going to your mother's this weekend. We need to buy some flour to make her a pie. Even though she makes them better than me," I add with a sigh and I feign a sad face as we move through the supermarket aisles.
His smile widens. He moves closer and almost wraps his arms around me but holds back at the last moment. I don't like public displays of affection, and he respects that, even though I know he would like to show that we are more than just friends. But the rings on our fingers prove otherwise.

Though, that doesn't stop him from leaning towards me and whispering delicately near my ear, "Maybe she makes better pies, but no one is a better dessert than you."
Then he gently brushes my hand and grabs a pack of strawberry-flavored yogurts, his guilty pleasure.
I pinch his arm and hold back a smile against my will. Then we continue our stroll through the endless array of products. A delicious scent of freshness and artificiality fills the air, intoxicating, that of everyday life and the presents, unfurling on a long tray of diverse objects. It is infused with a scent of novelty and packaging, unknown, sneaking among us like an autumn breeze and numbing our muscles. Near the fresh produce aisle, my hair stands on end, and I shiver.

He is all excited by my side, very cheerful. His contagious joy makes me so happy, me who used to hate everything and despise every being. He had managed to bring about a radical change in me without making me a different person. He had healed me with his unconditional and limitless love.

Sometimes, affectionate love triumphs over passionate one. Trust, respect for the other, and the constant presence of someone to lean on is often a better remedy than an irrepressible desire that ends up destroying its own with its inexorable power.
I know it. I knew it, from the way he looked at me tenderly and reassured me. His eyes silently promised everything that thousands of words could not. He was a rampart, a reinforcement. A benevolent soul that allowed me not to succumb and kept me from falling.

"Apples. My mother likes apples.
- An apple crumble? Or a pie?
He remains pensive, then announces:
- The crumble is a good idea. I'll buy some vanilla ice cream to go with it. "
He walks away to search for it in the frozen foods section. Meanwhile, I ponder which of the two bags of apples that I compare is better, the bright red one or the more bitter one. His mother doesn't like sugar very much. I opt for the bitter ones and go in search of my husband.
He is like a child who frolics and runs away at every opportunity. I like this nonchalant spirit in him and his way of taking everything lightly, even if it tends to sometimes make him ignore real problems and prevents him from facing reality.

He appears out of nowhere and puts the ice cream on the pile of things, then sneaks up behind me to discreetly place a package of salted peanuts, and I pretend to ignore it even though we both know.
We roam the place back and forth and arrive at the checkouts to pay for our purchases.

When we leave the mall, as I help him lifting the stuff to the car, he asks calmly a question that is brushed away with the wind. His voice is somewhat needy and worried, but so subtly that I hardly notice it.
"You love me, right, Linda?
I take a moment to respond. I have always had a hard time with such deep and meaningful words.
- Mhm, I answer, quickly looking away. There's no time right now for pointless talk. I'll put the caddie in its place. You can start the car. "
I hear him whisper an okay that isn't very convinced and I turn not to see his saddened face. My heart clenches. I'll tell him later. In the car.
When we arrive home.
Right now.

But I never do.
Because I didn't know, at that moment, that it was our last hangout. I was soon going to find out.

The meeting with his mother would indeed take place. But without him.
And without the apple dessert.

*

It's about 3 o'clock when I feel an urgent need to hydrate myself. I sit up wearily and fumble in the dark for the bottle, when I hear the dull sound of it collapsing. I curse and press the switch of the bedside lamp, then, finally, the room illuminates, and I catch it. I lean against the back of the bed and remove the lid to drink. My glasses are lying on the dresser.

I turn to the pillow to the left of mine. I hope I didn't wake him up. He fell asleep faster than usual.

He is deeply asleep, and seems calmer and more serene than ever. Internally, I smile at his peaceful sight. I have become accustomed to his warm and reassuring presence next to me. Every day we spend together strengthens the strong bonds we have formed: a couple is a huge web whose main links are trust and security. The passion of the first days turns into mutual affection.
I adjust a stray hair to observe his face, before leaning over and placing a kiss on his cheek. Finally, after a few moments of silence, I let out a huge yawn and lie down again, while turning off the light.
In a whisper, I murmur as I feel my eyelids closing themselves:
"Of course I love you, dummy"
And this time, I mean it.

But the next day, he is no longer there.

*

His proposal took me by surprise. We got along well, that was a fact. But more than that, we were both moved by our respective pasts.
Yet there came a day when everything changed for the two of us. And we had nothing left. So we clung to each other like shipwrecked people without a life raft, vainly trying to forge a fleet from the scraps and debris of lives left to debauchery on the shores of our existences. Then, when all that remained were each other's arms, we emerged from the ultimate blow of the universe by holding onto the edge. He saved me, and I followed him. He saved me, and I let him.
And together, we built a raft, which day after day eventually turned into a boat, then into a ship. And the ship reached the mainland. And we disembarked like two newborns setting foot on land for the first time.

After the storm, the most important survivors of the massacre were our two frivolous hearts, which attached themselves as best they could. And time did the rest.

*

My feelings upon waking up next to an empty pillow are confused but not overly worried. Despite his tendency to sleep in, he would occasionally, albeit rarely, get up before me to prepare a surprise breakfast, often on a birthday or special occasion, or due to an urgent call from his mother who had forgotten which button lowered the volume on her phone.

But as I sit up, I feel that something is off. We are very different when we sleep: he takes up all the space, and I take up all the covers, so we had arranged to have two separate blankets and a larger bed. But his is pulled up onto his pillow, without any wrinkles, as if it is done intentionally. He has never tidied his bed.

We had divergent notions of communal living. He took care of the cooking, I took care of cleanliness. He was incapable of folding his laundry or putting his comforter back in place. I was a cleanliness freak. And I loved organization. I loved seeing the results of household efforts. Above all, I loved his cooking. He had the touch of a magician. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Seeing his side of the bed clean and neat quickly causes me an unpleasant feeling that engulfs me. I get up slowly and head towards the bathroom to start my morning routine, as if it can bring back the normalcy of our days. As if he is going to appear. Because I am starting to understand, even subconsciously.
He isn't coming back. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never again.

And as I brush my teeth, I violently drop the toothpaste and knock over the glass of water, which shatters at my feet. As I bend down to pick it up, my hand trembles, and I cut myself. Then, as I stand up, my head spins, and I lean on the edge of the sink to regain control. I take a deep breath and compose myself. No, he didn't leave. It's not possible. There's no reason for it. It's not possible. I'm a calm person. My nerves can't let me down.

But as I emerge from the bathroom and sit on the edge of the mattress, my eyes fall on the dresser. There's a ring. Identical to mine.
There's a ring. But it is not mine.