Blackberry

It was that hazy time between late night and early morning when you said it. The sentiment was clear, felt by thousands of highschool seniors in that period between December and June, yet uniquely you:

“Everything is changing.”

It felt as though you’d just realized it, which almost made me laugh. You were right, of course; you were always right, but we were thinking of different things. I didn't have the energy to explain why and you certainly didn’t have the patience to listen, so I just nodded. Two styrofoam cups sat in front of us, tinged red and blue respectively, clinging onto the memory of what once inhabited them. The cups and I were on more similar pages than us; I mourned our epilogue while you cracked the spine of your next memoir. Since the news, I’d had no desire to pick up volume two. I wouldn’t be a character, so what was the point? But you weren’t bothered by my absence. I was still beside you, after all, on the same ledge we’d frequented for years. What was there to miss? Instead, I stared at the cups and wished for purple while you sprang into monologue.

“Mr. Ellis was right about that one poem. I guess it was pretty self-indulgent.” You spoke with a sort of resigned acceptance, one that ached through every dip in my fir-green bones. 

“Your portfolio was killer,” was all I could manage. “Brown would have been idiotic to deny you.” 

You hummed, leaning back onto your arms and swinging your feet. You were allowed to hum now that you were in. I felt compelled to mirror your pose but I ultimately resisted. We’d shared everything (body language, tears, test answers, etc.) for as long as I could remember. That would change soon; August, perhaps, or the June before. I had to get used to controlling my own body and heart. 

You plucked a pebble from the ground and chucked it over the cliff. It flew in a perfect arc, sinking below the moonlight as the cityscape neared. Windows took the place of stars as people began to wake, begrudgingly illuminating their cubic millimeters of my vision. Farther off, traffic lights rose from their slumber and switched from blinking to guiding. We took the graveyard shift up here often, ranging from once to thrice a week depending on your stress-level. We’d barely peaked four by the time the Early Decision deadline came, and quickly sank back to one as it passed. 

“You should have applied,” you said. “You could have easily gotten in.”

I smiled because I knew you couldn’t see it. “What, and take your spot?”

    You scoffed and nudged me. The touch bloomed a scourge of warmth on my arm, one that was gone as quickly as it came. I wrapped my jacket around me tighter. “Don’t worry about me. Campbell has a great law program,” I parroted. It was the same lie I’d told the girl in the mirror for weeks. She never believed me, though, and you didn’t either. 

Silenced settled like dew as the sun began to rise. She and I had a shared animosity: I hated that her presence ended our shared nights, and she hated illuminating the mess I called a body. We begrudgingly put up with each other so that you could still shine. 

On cue, a flash of light awoke my sillouette. In my state of self-loathing solitude, you’d managed to stand up and start your car. You honked the horn once, one half note of haste, and I rose from the gravel. I always hated this part, but the allure of heated seats kept me quiet. 

-

The ride down the mountain was Kafkaeque. My mood sank with the elevation of our world as I kept a conscious population count. A glance to my left confirmed one, followed by another to the side-view mirror. My reflection raised the number to two, but I was hesitant to put it in the books. Our time together was coming to an end, and I could do nothing to stop it. My pleas and bribes fell short of the moon as she dipped entirely from our view, leaving the world with an empty black sky. I knew it wasn’t really empty; even as my eyes failed me, the stars still shone from lightyears away. I silently wished that they’d creep a bit closer and June would push a bit farther.

 You squinted against the break of morning as my street loomed into view. A deer sat on my neighbor’s lawn (the mean one, not the widow) and quietly judged your sticker selection: a cat, tubby and ambivalent; a quote from your favorite movie in an almost-incomprehensible font; a peace sign; and finally, a “WVU Mom” magnet (ironically, of course. You’d never bore children, much less ones attending WVU.)  I would have gladly stuck myself between the cat and the magnet, but my adhesive quality had worn off over time as the muck of life clung to me. I don’t think the cat would have enjoyed my presence, anyway. His ambivalence was fragile.

-

I’d never felt smaller than I did while leaning through your car window. Your heaters blasted my face, washing it in a wave of warm air and blackberry. Dark circles had begun to settle underneath your concealer as I pondered what to say next. Thankfully, you took over:

“Next Tuesday?” you offered. I knew you were being sincere, but the saboteur on my shoulder tried to convince me otherwise. 

“As always,” I said, hoping it was still dark enough to hide my grimace. It must have worked, because you just smiled and hugged me through the gap, deaf to constant murmur in my head. 

I backed away until the blush and flush on my cheeks blended into one. You waved me goodbye, your pinky finger promising that this wasn’t the end. I’d sworn a lot of things to that appendage over the years, but nothing made me doubt it’s word until now. I knew it’s intentions were pure; your heart, however, had different plans.

You were out of my sight in under a minute. As I walked up my stoop, I could taste the metallic twang of June already. It was unpleasant, but less so than I had anticipated.

Still, I think I’ll always prefer blackberry.