Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #49

This coffee shop is louder than the one I usually go to. Well, The Purple Onion is too, but I lie about going there a lot so you won't come looking for me at my regular place (though maybe you have enough sense to not want to find me). Anyway, they roast the beans here, and the machine rattles the room with noise, stirring the beans in wide circles.

If it wasn't so loud, I probably wouldn't notice, but I'm drawn to the motion, the shifting and swirling movement of them, round and round. I'm sure you're sick of hearing about circles, but they're the only piece of geometry I'm interested in. Which, seeing as my thoughts run the same tracks (again and again and round and round), you must be aware of that.

But here's the thing: I like to play this game. ("Like," might be too strong of a word, but that's not the point.) I unspool my life, rewind and replay the past set over the now. Again and again. (Circles, see?) A year ago and now. Again and again.

A year ago, I was at a coffee shop ordering tea with Clair. Now, I am ordering tea by myself. Same shop. Same baristas. (Maybe that's why I like this place so much. Memory is inlaid in the tile, perfumes the air. The membrane between past and present is thinner there, more flexible, and I can pretend the barrier will break down, and Clair will waltz through the door when I glance up.)

The teabag bobs, and I pluck it out of my mug, tea staining my fingertips. I can't even explain why I'm doing it, just that I need the heat licking my hands and a mess I can clean up. A year ago, this wasn't what happened, and I wouldn't've needed something this stupid to hold me together.

A year ago, a year ago, a year ago.

A napkin sops up the spilled mess, and you wad it up before tossing it at Clair. It bounces off her shirt, and plops wetly onto her textbook. She yelps before swearing.

"M.!"

You grin, but it falters when her eyes flash lightning-bright. It's not like messing with her (or her messing with you) is a new thing, but the way her freckles storm across her cheeks makes you squirm. Furious, Clair claws for a handful of napkins to address the ruined page, but ink and tea bleed and warp it despite her efforts.

"I'm sorry." Like a coward, you drop your gaze, so you don't have to meet her eyes. You slide her book over to your side of the table, and lean over it. You breathe on it, blowing warm air to dry the words. It doesn't do much but Clair releases a breath, and when you look up, her eyes have cooled. A smile graces her lips, but her eyes are blank.

Clair scrubs a hand over her face before grabbing the wet clump of napkins and book and heading to the nearest garbage can. Unceremoniously, she drops everything into the trash and retreats to your table; she tugs your hand, guiding you out of the coffee shop. A gust of wind forces you behind her for a moment, but you take a double-step to catch up. When you reach her side, you stop to gape at her.

Clair pulls up short beside you. "What?"

"That was probably fifty bucks you just threw away, and we're only a few weeks into the semester. How're you going to study?"

Clair's grin finally reaches her eyes. "I can still drop the class. I think you did me a favor." A swirl of wind tosses her hair, and you both lean closer together to hear one another.

"Clair, I was being an idiot. I'll pay for the bo—"

She cuts you off. A hand snarled in your hair, her lips fever-hot on yours. Tongue sliding against yours, slippery as a snake. Her heat staves off the wind, but it rolls off her too boiling hot, burning where she kisses. Clair draws you even closer, and despite the way your mind is working (too close too close), you like her fingers laced with yours, the way her heart is flush with yours.

Only a moment later, Clair pulls herself away with a gasp. And a breath later, she's crying, hands balled into tight fists.

"I'm sorry," she says, and covers her mouth with the back of a fist. Tears spring in the corners of her eyes. "M., I'm so sorry. I shouldn't've—" Clair chokes on the rest of the words.

"It's okay," you say, but your voice has an echoey quality to it. Is it? You've kissed and been kissed before. You had a boyfriend in high school. In all that time, kissing was nothing more than indifference. Sure, you didn't hate it (or regret it), but you didn't particularly like it either. It just was.

But somehow, this seems like it was wrung from you, but it's Clair. You love her, but—

It doesn't matter, though. Loving her matters. Love is unconditional, and pure and unselfish, and why, if you love her, would you deny her? That's what love is.

Right?

The wind swirls between you.