Page Eighty-Four

The plasticky paper cover of the magazine stuck to my damp fingertips. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. It was towards the last chunk of pages. Page eighty-four. A simple story. One about love that led to immense heart break. The names were different, Mia in place of Maya, Bill in place of Ben. The details though, those were the same. The loft we had shared in New York, our golden retriever, Buck, and our slow mornings. A story about Him and me, plastered between the pages of other writers’ words. Words that were meaningless next to His.

My coffee had gone cold by the time You walked into the kitchen. Not Him, but You. Already dressed for work, suit, tie, hair combed to the side. You smiled at me like every morning, but I didn’t return the gesture, my hands still gripping the crinkled magazine.

“Something wrong?” You asked.

You know when something is off. This time it was obvious, I didn’t look at you, didn’t stay and sip my cold coffee as you pulled out the toaster.

“Uh…No, nothing. I’m heading off. See you tonight, ok?”

Your eyes didn’t leave me as I grabbed my bag, shoved on my clogs, and hurried out the door, magazine still in my grasp.

I didn’t make it far, only to my parked car in the driveway, when I looked at page eighty-four, again. Mornings here with You are different than they were with Him. They’re quieter. Here there are no taxis honking, the house was placed back behind a line of trees, a place so foreign from the city loft that I’d shared with Him. No car doors slamming or shouting from pedestrians down on the street. The rooms in this house are spacious. Plenty of room for our king-sized bed. The faucets don’t drip, and the floors don’t creak, and the dog… there is no dog. So very different. You and I don’t talk about silly things like I had with Him. You and I read magazines together at the breakfast table and eat runny eggs on toast. We talk about refinancing the mortgage and when we should have kids. We hadn’t decided yet. A year, maybe two? WE had careers and schedules that would be thrown off by having kids. Babies that would have Your eyes, and my nose. Babies, a mixture of You and I, but nothing of Him. Then our toast would be crumbs and our coffee cups empty. A peck on the cheek before a long commute. Texts that are never read.

But in the magazine on page eighty-four, there was our morning, him and I. Our slow, happy, loud, mornings. Cereal that grew soggy because we were talking, or dancing, or laughing, or kissing. Meetings we were late for. Weekends that we canceled all our plans just so we didn’t have to hurry through our day. Laying in a tangle of sheets at eleven as his fingertips trailed up the length of my spine. And we’d whisper about our future, about a house by the ocean where the salt lingered in the air and every day felt like a holiday. It would be a small house, a bungalow, just big enough for Him and I and the family we’d create together. We’d laugh about the possibility of our children having His nose and gushed about the thought of them having my eyes. I could imagine them being everything like Him, nose and all. His talent, work ethic, and love. I was fine if our children looked nothing like me, if they were everything like Him. Even at our lowest point, our end, I still saw that ocean view house, the kids with His face, our future.

Tears fell onto page eight-four.

The paper turning mushy under each drop.

Then, without much thought, I dialed his number.

It rang.

And rang.

Then I heard Him.

“Maya?” His voice was the same. Low, but tired, and confused.

He probably had been up writing, like He used to when we were together. Hunched over his laptop at the tiny desk at the end of our bed. He’d crawl into bed no earlier than twelve, waking me in the process.

“Hi, Ben,” It was a whisper, “I… Uh…sorry to call you out of the blue… I saw your story…”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I just read it a few minutes ago… it’s lovely.” I couldn’t lie, not to him.

“Thank you, I appreciate that, was it the one about the ocean, right?”

“No, not that one. Though I’m sure that one is lovely also.”

His deep chuckle vibrated through the phone into my bones. My face heated.

“It was the one… the one about us.”

“Us?”

He said this like I had gone mad. Like there had never been an us, and I had to remind him, that He at one point loved me. Was three years so long? Had He forgotten what it feels like to twirl me around on the kitchen tile as Motown music floated from the radio? How he would kiss me all over my face before I could step out of bed. Our scents intertwining. Our lips pushing together. Our life.

“Yes…” I attempted to swallow, but my throat dried, “the one called, ‘The Loss of a Slow Morning’”

There was a sigh at the other end, “Damnit. How the hell did that get submitted…I’m sorry, Maya, I must have sent in the wrong file… That’s an old work of mine, right after our breakup.”

“Oh, I see.” My heart fell. Fell so far, down, down, down to the tips of my toes. Making my feet cement and my chest hollow.

“It’s nice to hear from you though, and congratulations,” His voice softened, “On the wedding.”

Then my heart melted. Pooled at the bottom of my car, soaked into my shoes, slid in between my toes. The call ended and my engine started. And on the passenger seat sat, Him. Still curled into me, the morning just beginning, the tickle of his whispered words against my ear. Frozen in time on page eighty-four.