I remember standing on the curb in Virginia, looking at the back of Bec's little blue datsun. There was a
summer years ago when Bec would come over and we would make
margaritas; he would keep me company until you got home from work. There would be a summer to come, one I wouldn't predict yet on that curb, when Bec would come with me when I moved out of the apartment we shared, all three. He brought his
stash and his bowl and watch me move my things into an aging
Impala. He'd say, "I can see why he didn't want to be here when you were moving out," between tokes on a corn cob pipe. "I don't want to watch it either." You were at Monohan's, drinking a bottle of
Jack, realizing that
I left you, and that we were both starting over
from scratch.
But on that curb, I was crying inside. You were leaving, and even though I would later join you, you were leaving with Bec and whatever purpose I held for you would sputter out soon enough as you pulled away. You couldn't wait, not 5 months, for me. No, you had to go. I should have known then.
I went home to an empty house. Dylan stayed the night and I, for the first time, smoked a bowl from a stash of my own, trying to reconfigure a single bed, a twin matresss, with you gone. It didn't take me long to adjust. People were saying that I was a completely different person without you around. I had my own personality, and your friends liked me so much that they took my side when I left you. They seemed to know you better than I, something I hadn't counted on.
So you left me. Then I left you. Yes, now we are even
People leave. They sometimes leave you behind, and you are the exit party, the people at the end of the driveway, or in my case, dangling over the balcony, waving the last silent goodbye as they drive away, to known and unknown destinations beyond your horizon. Then, you close the door and go back inside, the farewell concluded and memories your own.