Close Enough

I smelled her before I saw her. The subtle hints of chamomile and lemon wrapped around me, almost choking. How many times had I dreamt about this day? I was standing in line to pay for my gas of all things, surrounded by truckers, cold, dirty linoleum, and harsh fluorescent lighting. Something so simple and banal was about to change my life immeasurably. I slowly turned around, and there she was.

Twenty years later, and she didn’t look even a day older.

I knew the last time couldn’t really be the last time. Those were just little lies people tell to feel a certain way—strong, firm, in charge. Lies I told myself too, but destiny, fate, obsession—call it what you’d like—it always wins in the end.

The memories rushed through me the same way my blood did. I don’t know how long I’d been staring. At least two people passed me in line, giving me odd looks. I barely noticed, barely breathed. I was drowning in her.

She adjusted her purse on her shoulder; the clasp caught the light, just like her blonde hair. When she noticed me looking, she gave me a small, polite smile. That wasn’t right. That was the kind of smile you give a stranger holding the door or the cashier who hands you your change. After everything we had been through together, surely I warranted more.

I took a step forward. That smile stayed put. Didn’t she know who I was?

I took another step and then another. Finally, her smile dropped, and her eyes asked questions I wasn’t willing to answer. I had been waiting for my own answers for two decades, after all.

Five more steps and I would be right there in front of her.

I loved her—until I didn’t. The line between love and hate is thin. I’ve crossed it before.

I took another step forward. Four more steps left. I was almost close enough to see the little scar above her eyebrow.

It was one of those late nights that turned into morning, a little too much to drink but never too much laughter. I felt her blood run over my hands that day too as I put her back together. She didn’t leave. That meant something, didn’t it? She let me stitch her up, but the next day she was gone again, smiling at someone else.

Cleaning up the broken glass, I thought that night bound us forever. She thought it was just another mess I was good enough to clean up. That was my role—good enough to save her, never good enough to keep her.

Always second. Always replaced. Always forgotten too soon. Never enough.

The smell of gasoline drifted in as the door swung open, someone else walking inside. Their boots squeaked on the linoleum, but all I heard was her laugh echoing in my head. That laugh was never just for me. It belonged to anyone who asked.

Then three. Where was the dimple I used to stare at when she smiled at someone else?

I dipped my hand into my pocket. My fingers found the knife that lived there, the familiar weight pressing against my palm like it had been waiting for this moment as much as I had. Instead of putting her back together, I was going to rip her apart. I contemplated starting with her right cheek, tracing the blade across her skin until I found the dimple that still hadn’t appeared.

A man coughed behind me in line. The buzz of fluorescent lights seemed louder, drilling into my skull. My palms itched. My chest ached. I couldn’t think of anything but the day she didn’t even say goodbye.

I knocked on her door that day before letting myself in, as usual, only to find an empty apartment. She was just gone. The only thing left of us was me. I found a box of everything I had ever given her—notes and trinkets I thought she would treasure forever. The only thing not in it was my broken heart. She could have thrown it all away, but no—she wanted me to see, to know I’d always been disposable. Thrown away like yesterday's trash.

Then two. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

I slowly opened the knife in my pocket and ran my thumb across the blade. I felt a prick and pulled my hand out of my pocket. My blood tasted metallic.

I imagined her blood running cold over my hands.

These were the same hands she used to hold when we were just two girls with forever ahead of us. Forever ended up being four months of borrowed time.

Almost a touch that lingered.

Almost a kiss in the dark.

Almost her smile brightening when she looked at me.

I was almost enough. Almost was everything to me. To her, it was nothing at all. Almost nothing is worse than nothing at all.

Four months. But who’s counting?

Two steps between me and my kryptonite. It didn’t matter if there was an expiration date. Expiration dates were for milk, not for us. Expiration dates were definitive—a tag or a stamp clearly defining the end.

I didn’t get the luxury of knowing when the end would come. One day she was mine, and the next she pretended she belonged to someone else.

I was never the first choice. Not then. Not now.

One.

Chamomile and lemon were replaced by the smell of fear as I pulled the knife from my pocket. It was my turn to smile.

No scar. No dimple. No trace of the girl who once made me believe forever could exist. It wasn’t her. No wonder she hadn’t aged. It should have gutted me. There I was, knife in hand, about to kill the wrong woman. No second chance. No fixing this one. There never really was, not for me.

I took the final step and plunged the knife into her throat.

She died the way I lived—second best, a substitute, never the chosen one.

Oh well. Close enough.