On our third date (not that we were dating; not that I was counting) we shared the same drink. I thought that it was better than kissing because it was still intimate between me and you, and yet no one would know by glancing what it meant. Your lip gloss stain over where I pressed my own lips against the rim of the glass, it meant ‘You’re a part of me’.
Last night, I sat on the same sofa where we had the same condensation on our hands. Later, I would hold that hand on the way to a hospital, and I would study it on a Sunday morning instead of reading the latest literary marvel, and I would kiss it on the night when I decided that I didn’t approve of the space between us, in a bed, in a town where we both would live.
Now I tell myself I don’t remember your hands.
I tried to explain it to you (last night included) that you are still a part of me – that I still have your germs in my body. That although my mind broke up with you, my cells are still stubbornly hanging on – you’re in my ear when I hear music, and in my fingertips when I type.
Last night, I knew that in ancient history I had stirred ourselves in with the melting ice cubes of that drink we once shared, and consequently, we could never be separated again. Our physical relationship confined to a glass. Do you understand yet?
I couldn’t hold onto germs forever. But, sitting on the same sofa I could imagine it all too easily, how your fingers used to slip between mine to take the glass from my hands and how your lips would hover where mine were only moments before.