Lemons and Oranges

She wasn’t my first heartbreak and she wouldn’t be my last, but she would be the most memorable by far. Even now, tangled in blankets and sleepwear, I can feel the ghost of the warmth she would bring to cold winter mornings. When I woke up, I had a feeling I would walk out of my bedroom and see her at the island in the kitchen of my large penthouse apartment placing bowls of fruit and premade plates on any free counter space available. “Lemons and Oranges for decoration,” she would say, though it never made sense to me, “And for healthy snacks during the sad season.” That’s how she would describe the weight that stopped her in her tracks the minute the sun set at 8pm for the last time. That’s how she would describe the way she was damn near unable to move from the bed for days at a time. 

It started the way most of my romances do; with the intent of finding the perfect balance between flirtatiousness and awkwardness. She, being unhinged in just the right way and I being protective in just the right way. We played the single game well, though we always knew who we wanted. We first met at a Halloween party of a mutual friend, I’d seen her when I came in. She had skin so dark brown that it looked as though mother nature herself could have created her by hand. She was dressed as a hare and I, coincidentally, a magician. We officially ran into each other at the drink table and when we spoke, everything clicked so abruptly that it was unnerving. We spent the entire night looking for and finding one another simply to make fun of the drunken debacle that was Halloween. It was just us in our world, but when she left the party without a word, I thought maybe it was just us in MY world.

 Months later, we met at a local bar during live music mondays. Again mutual connections. Again in autumn. That was the first time I'd asked her name: Ona, pronounced with a soft o. Once more, we gravitated toward each other all night, but this time, before she left, she actually said goodbye, leaving me with her phone number. I texted her immediately and we talked all night, but just as we’d gotten closer over the autumn months, she disappeared again and I was stuck missing her all throughout winter. I didn’t mind at first, one rarely does in the beginning. 

So I spent the winter flirting with other women, scrolling through random dating apps, and sleeping around if it fell in my lap, but Ona…Ona had been in the back of my mind the entire time.  It was as though she’d created a perfect formula of social stimulation that would leave me empty each time she left. I would stumble through life clumsily and dangerously for four months just hoping to run into her again. Nothing would go right! I’d lost two jobs; I’d broken my foot by bicycle…mind you, one I wasn’t even riding; I even got a ticket while I was IN the car. I was beginning to think my luck turned to shit when I met her. Unfortunately, I wasted a lot of time bitter at a woman I’d only met twice, but when I saw her again, this time in summer, every negative emotion I was feeling dissipated.

 I’d seen her at a local arts festival.  Ona was with another man and I couldn’t say anything about it. I avoided her the entire day until we ran into each other at the beer tent. She gave the people working the tent her ticket and turned so quickly she'd almost run into me. I hadn’t even known I was behind her, but when we locked eyes, something in me softened so quickly that it made me nervous. Ona grinned, the smile brightening her entire face. Before I could ask her what band she came to see, a perfectly manicured finger would lift between our faces to silence me. “Ah, ah ah,” She mused, “no coincidences. We should smoke.” To this day, I don’t know where that man she brought went or what even happened, but that was our first date.

It took nearly a year of this back and forth. She would leave along with my luck and return it back months later. In those few months where we were together, my design for a building in the city was accepted by a law firm. They paid me 10,000 in advance and they would pay me another 70 once the building was in construction. Architecture was not and never will be something that people can do easily, but with her, everything seemed to just come effortlessly to me. It wasn’t until my salary was paid in full that I decided that I never wanted her to leave. I asked her to be with me and only me on my birthday.

It’s always perfect at first. Even if she wouldn’t allow me over the entire first year of our relationship, Ona would come to my place every day and make my mornings just a little sweeter. She would make a large breakfast that she had to have started at 6 am and she would cook me dinner that same evening. I loved being with her. She filled my head and lungs with the kind of dopamine only hard drugs could provide. We could have just eaten dinner together a moment ago and I would help her clean the kitchen afterward simply to spend more time with her. Like a tornado of good intentions, the thin, sleepy woman would twirl through the penthouse with decorations and healthy snacks. They would go bad before I ever wanted any, but she would buy more hoping that maybe this time I would actually eat the fruit instead of potato chips and trail mix. It made my life more organized and kept my mind clear. Our first summer was better than I ever could have imagined and honestly, I was excited to have her in my life and attainable for the holidays. Unfortunately, the morning after the first fresh snow of the season, there was no breakfast, but it didn’t matter.  Holding her delicate body felt better than rolling over to a freshly made bed beside me. 

Normally, after we would eat breakfast, Ona would run home to shower, grab clothes and reappear in the evening when I would leave the jobsite. The first cold day in November, she didn’t move from the bed all day. I took the opportunity to make her breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed. It was exhausting to do before, during and after work,  but I powered through it because having her, even like this, felt better than missing her all winter long. It was the little things that made me want to do everything for her while she slept. When she woke up, we would cuddle just a bit longer. We would turn to face each other, with our fingers and naked legs entwined. Ona would run soft hands along my arms, my cheeks and my nose and I would tell her just how beautiful she was until I absolutely HAD to get up. In the evenings, we would lie in the dark with my oversized windows open for the city view. We would play i-spy, naked twister and make love all night. The second year was not so easy.

In the second year of our relationship, I’d accepted a more reliable job with the city building different bridges, houses and political properties. This was more demanding; some days I wouldn’t even be home until about 7. Even knowing this, my Ona would make me a late, well done dinner and still wake up to make breakfast. I’ll admit that in that second year, I rarely showed her how grateful I was for her. I would eat, throw the plates in the sink, kiss her roughly on her hair and go directly to sleep. She would spend the evenings cleaning and the mornings as well with little to no help. I began to wonder why she even bothered. This sort of thinking was what led to our very first argument. And it was bad. All she wanted to know was why I didn’t help her clean anymore. I would tell her that I worked and I was tired. “But you worked last year too!” She would whine. “You would help me clean YOUR place and we would lay together the rest of the night. What changed?”

“No one ever asked you to clean my place,” I would snap, “or cook! Why not just try ordering in sometimes like a normal person?”

That would silence her for the rest of the evening and she would still clean and I would not help. I felt terrible the entire night, even when I felt her creep back into bed with me well into the night, I couldn’t shake the guilt. I helped her clean the next morning, caring very little about how late this would make me for work. When I got there, I would find people waiting for me, telling me they'd been looking for me since 8am. No one ever needs you until you’re not there. This led to a warning, but, to me, it was simply an empty threat and it was proven. They’d never spoken to me again about it. That night, I’d helped Ona clean the kitchen after dinner and apologized for the night before and things seemed to have fallen in place again.

November was always hard for her and I. Last year, I’d spent the entire month feeding her and making sure she stayed hydrated during her long days in my room. This year, I had neither the time, nor the patience. As a matter of fact, it almost felt more peaceful at work than at home. It’s not like we would argue, but knowing that she rarely left the bedroom and I would find her sleeping in the same clothes for days at a time began to feel more like a burden. Most days I would leave without breakfast, get lunch for myself and then cook her dinner in the evening. I was too tired to play, chat, or cuddle, but I still loved her with every part of my body and every vein under my skin. I could feel her coursing through me the way blood does with any living creature. Everything was hers; My thoughts, my heart, my anguish and my impatience were all hers. Now I’m realizing that the second year would have been the time to lie down and tell her she's beautiful all night, or tell her about how my days felt weird when she’s just a thought and not with me, to  just lay it on the line and say “I’ve loved you since before I knew your name.”

My final year with Ona, I won an award from the city for diligence for every mistake or last minute change to building and how I handled it with little to no apology or praise. This motivated me far more than anything or anyone had in a long time. 12 hour days and leaving each message from Ona unread until I would leave well after 8. She would still show up, no matter the hour to cook me dinner. That year, I got her a key to my place, thinking maybe that would ease the tension. Yet and still, the arguments got worse over the summer and I fell back into the habit of being of no help after meals. When the seasons changed and her mood sunk, she stopped cleaning completely. Some days, I was so beat that I would fall asleep on the couch regularly while she sat, unmoving in my bed. Some nights I’d even made a point to eat after drinking with the company, leaving Ona, my Ona, with nothing but sex and sleep. 

On New Year's Eve, I invited her to my company party. Ona was putting them away to be such a petite woman, with little to no food. We caught a cab back to my place and, drunk as ever, we would retire in the living room. I’d prepared to sleep directly after the party but Ona would be wide awake, drunk and belligerent. “You don’t love me,” She spat out just before I’d fallen into REM on my couch.

“What?” I would respond groggily.

“You. Don’t. Love. Me.”

“Why would you even say that?

“Nothing is the same.” At this point, I sat up, now understanding by the crack in her voice, the strength it took to even say that. “You leave me all hours of the day! You barely eat what I cook and you don’t even go to bed with me anymore!”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?! You don’t see how everything has changed?!”

“Ona, I need you to rela-”

“Don’t you DARE! I am NOT CRAZY.”

“No one’s calling you crazy.”

“I'm not stupid either!”

“What are you even talking about?”

“You don’t see it?!”

“Ona, I work. I don’t know if you do or how you even make money,” I began, knowing how badly things could turn out after this, but still, I continued. “I never asked you to do any of this! I’m appreciative, but at this point it feels like you're cooking for YOU because YOU don’t even eat! You just lie there!”

“You used to lay with me for days at a time!” She recalled through her drunken haze.

“Who wants to lay down all fucking day, Ona? I am BORED.”

She got quiet, but it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was heavy with words we wanted to say but couldn’t. “You’re bored…with me?” she asked finally, after plopping herself on the couch.

“Yes, Ona. I’ve been bored,” I began, realizing my mistake. “Well…lately I have been anyway.”

Silence again. “Happy New Year,” she stated flatly before swaying to my bedroom, placing a hand on the wall to keep her steady. That night, I slept on the couch again. The next morning there was no breakfast and no Ona. I didn't go to work that day, choosing instead to lay on her side of the bed all day. Her warmth was gone, but her shape remained. In that same week, they hired a more qualified architect and I was demoted to assistant. I called her; she didn’t answer. I texted her for weeks; nothing. She was gone. There was no break up. There was no hard conversation. 

It’s been nearly a year since I lost her and all my luck. At the end of this year I’ll have to downsize to a significantly smaller place, but Ona will be there in some ways. I’ll cook myself breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’ll clean up after each meal. I’ll put lemons and oranges out for decoration and I’ll  eat them until they’re gone, though they won’t taste the same without Ona on my tongue. Now she’s just a thought, but it’s better than not having her at all.