Loved Ones

We sat together on the couch in the living room. Our food was on the coffee table getting cold while Margherita and I were lost in conversation. I thought about how everything was just as how it used to be. I smiled as I watched her talk about the time this photographer stopped her on the sidewalk to take her picture for his portfolio or something. Margherita was gorgeous. She was a beautiful Italian woman with her bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle in the sunlight and twinkle when she laughed, wavy brown hair that bounced ever so slightly when she walked because Margherita Giordano always had some pep in her step. She had these perfectly plump pink lips, and light freckles scattered on her cheeks and nose – she was cute. No, she was more than that. I was sure that Margherita Giordano was the brightest thing that stepped foot on this Earth.

She started talking about how it would be nice for me to get a boyfriend or something to keep myself busy, but I don’t think she understood how impossible that was for me. Margherita was the prettiest girl in high school and she always had boys asking her out. She had a couple boyfriends here and there; a lot of people called her a slut behind her back, but she never seemed fazed by it. I knew if I was in her position, I wouldn’t have kept myself together as well as she did. Then again, if I was her, I’d be as pretty as her too. I often wondered if that played into her strength. I mean, I would probably feel a little better knowing that behind every rumour, there was a girl jealous of me because my existence made her insecure or that for every girl that hated me, there’d be three guys waiting to get their shot with me. Margherita was admired, hated, desired, seen – she was everything I wasn’t. She wasn’t me. She was everything I wanted to be, and maybe that’s why I loved her.

I stared at her as she spoke, not really paying attention. I love her, I thought to myself. I chuckled when she laughed telling a story I wasn’t really listening to. I loved the way her lips curled upwards into a smile; it lights up her whole face. I watched as she turned her gaze downwards, towards her burger, to find the thin pickle slices in her burger. She hated pickles. I watched in admiration as she picked at her food. I loved how careful she always was with getting rid of the pickles in her burgers like somehow, she didn’t want to hurt the burger any more than she believed. The remnants of a childlike perspective were alive and well in Margherita that shone through her belief that everything had life. She’s so cute.  

When she was done, she closed up her burger and took a bite. She rolled her eyes back in pleasure and gave off a little moan that interrupted her storytelling. I couldn’t help but smile. I loved when she did that. I loved the way she enjoyed food. I loved that although her father was the best cook in town, her favourite dish was my modified Kraft Dinner mac and cheese. It was nothing fancy, just boxed mac and cheese with some bacon bits put in the oven until it got those harder spots that made it fun to eat. I remember I made it for her when she came over to my house for the first time when we were freshmen. My parents were out of town, so we set up a tent in the living room that faced the television. We took my pillows and blanket down to make a cozy little place for ourselves in the tent. We loved horror movies and thought it would be a good idea to watch The Ring – it wasn’t. We were so scared we couldn’t go to sleep. We decided (at two in the morning) to go to the kitchen and make ourselves mac and cheese. There was a lot of laughter in that kitchen. I guess, it helped to ease the fear we felt. By the time we finished eating, it was almost four. We left our dishes in the sink and went back to our tent, less afraid than before.

In our silent little tent in the middle of a lifeless house, we lay next to each other under one blanket. I could feel her warmth beside me. I couldn’t sleep. I remember Margherita turned to sleep on her left side facing me. I turned… to look at her. She looked so peaceful. “Rita?” I asked. “Yeah?” she mumbled, sleepily.

“Are we gonna be friends forever?” my voice carried the same softness it had when I first asked her in the tent. She looked at me with loving eyes and a small smile formed on her lips. God, I love her so much. “Of course, we will.” The certainty from six years ago remained in her statement. “I’m always going to love you.” She went in to hold my hand but hesitated just as her gentle fingers were just about to touch mine. I knew she was scared so I reached out for hers. I expected to feel the weight of her hand to sit in the palm of mine, to feel her warmth upon my skin but… my body only received a taste. I should’ve been able to feel the textures of her hand, her fragile fingers against my palm or just the firmness of her existence within my grasp. Instead, it was a little warmth like a small fire on the brink of dying out. I could touch her but not completely just as she could love me but not as wholly as I desired.

She looked at me with those bright blue eyes, mouthing an apology because she knew I couldn’t stand to hear one. I gave her a weak smile and told her it was okay – that it wasn’t her fault. I wanted so badly to hug her, but I knew it would break us both that we couldn’t encase each other in a full embrace. The ghostly feeling of the other just within reach, teasing the senses was worse than the memory of our last real hug.

“I have to go,” she whispered. I knew she didn’t want to leave me. I could sense this feeling of guilt that arose within her whenever she mentioned leaving. “I know but come visit me whenever,” I said. She nodded, avoiding my gaze. “I’ll be here for maybe a day or two. Who knows? My schedule is oh so busy,” I tried to make it sound dramatic to get a smile on her face. She smiled and played along. “Well, can I book another meeting with you?”

“For you, I can clear out the billion things on my schedule for that day and I’ll come be here with you. Sound good?”

She nodded, excitedly.

“But I do have one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t forget to come back.”

“I could never forget to come back to you.”

If this was any other situation, we would’ve hugged. Instead, our relationship became a series of shared loving looks and silent “I love you’s.” I walked her to the door where we said “see you later” or “see you soon.” When I closed the door, I was left in the harrowing silence of a house I once called home. I went up to my room and lay in the bed left behind during the move, allowing myself to fade away waiting for her return.