Poppyseed Bagel

"Have we met before?" you ask.

It's a surprisingly complicated question, for us. The short answer is no. The true answer is yes. I never liked lying to you, so I just smile.

"You seem so familiar," you say, still trying to put your finger on it.

"I have one of those faces," I say.

I shouldn’t be here, in this bakery where you work, looking at you from across the counter, pretending I just want an everything bagel when really what I want is everything we had and lost. Everything we can never have again. 

“What can I get you?” you ask, pen poised above paper, ready for my order.

“An everything bagel toasted with butter, please,” I say. I love you, I mean. 

“Coming right up,” you promise, “Can I get a name for the order?”

I give you a fake one. You smile and write it down. 

You used to speak my name like a prayer, like something sacred. You used to whisper it between chapped lips. You used to yell it between laughs, frosting on your nose. I would give anything to hear you say it again. I never will. 

And the worst part is I chose this. And the part I never think about is I would do it again. I would chose this torture of isolation from you a million times over. 

You tell me the total. 

I hand you too much money and tell you to keep the change. You smile. 

I shouldn’t be here. I should turn around and walk out. But there’s a chance you will smile at me again. There’s a chance our fingers will brush when you hand me my bagel. 

Once I leave I can never come again. So I stay. 

I watch you put the bagel in the toaster. I listen to you hum to yourself. There are other people here, I think, but I can’t tear my eyes away from you. I never could. 

The worst part is I did this. The best part is you are not in pain. The part I never think about is you could have died. The part I think about too much is I didn’t do it for you. 

I erased all your memories of me, of us, and I didn’t even do it for you. 

Well, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t do the erasing part. But I chose it. I told him to do it. I had to. 

And now I have to live without you. 

You call out my fake name. You are holding a small white bag over the counter. I step forward. I reach, not for the bag, but for your hand. Your skin is warm and smooth. I fight the urge to close my eyes. 

“Sorry,” I say, and take the bag. 

“That’s ok,” you say, and smile. 

I look at you for too long. It is the last time. It has to be the last time. 

I turn and walk out the door. 

I manage not to cry until I reach my apartment. I could have just ruined everything. I would do it again, if I could. See you again, if I could. 

I needed to see. I needed to make sure you weren’t waiting for me. I knew you wouldn’t be, but I still hoped anyway. I hoped it hadn’t worked. 

Reckless. If it hadn’t worked, you would be dead. I would be dead. 

But at least then we would be together. 

The room is dark, though it is day. I haven’t been able to pull back my curtains, to face the mess. The air is stale, musty. There are dirty clothes on the floor. There are dirty clothes on my body. I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. 

The bag with the bagel is still in my hand. I can’t eat it. I can’t throw it out. You touched it. You made it for me. The last thing you will ever make for me. 

You used to make me all kinds of things. Disproportionate sweaters, lumpy socks, and too long scarves. You were horrible at it, but you loved it. And I wore them. Of course I did. I loved you. 

Loved. 

That was the first time I have used the past tense. It is past time. It’s been months. I need to let you go, but it feels like cutting off my own limb. 

Love. Loved.

Does it matter? You don’t remember. It might as well have not happened. We both would have been better off that way. 

I erased your memories to save the world. Well, not just yours. Everyone’s. But yours are the only ones that matter. To me, anyway. 

I didn’t erase everything, just myself. I had to. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for everyone else. 

If it had only been you and I, I would have let us die rather than forget. 

But it wasn’t only us. It was everyone. And that was not fair. So I did this. I chose this. And I didn’t do it for you. 

I open the bag with the bagel. There are immediately so many poppy seeds in my bed. 

I pull out the bagel. 

Poppy. Not everything. Not what I ordered. 

A mistake. 

A memory. 

An instinct. 

I preferred everything bagels, but you like sesame, so we compromised with poppy. They grew on us both. We always had poppy bagels in our apartment. I wonder what kind of bagels you have there now. Sesame, probably. 

I hold the bagel, under the covers, and I try to think. It’s hard, because all I want to do is cry. 

It was a mistake, I try to reason. It’s been a long day. I said everything and you grabbed a poppy without realizing. You buttered and bagged it up without realizing. 

It’s nine in the morning. 

I get up. 

I pull the curtains back, and gloomy morning light floods in. 

And then I am running. Out of my room, out of the house, down the street. Back to the bakery where you work. Where I ordered an everything bagel and received a poppyseed one. 

Do you remember?