Everything is Orange

Not a single day went by where one of us didn’t make coffee, and that day was no different. I waited for the beep of the electric kettle and you sat down-quietly-at our thrifted kitchen table. When we loaded it up into the car we wondered how many families had sat around it. We weren’t bothered at all by the water rings, worn finish, and gouges in the wood. We knew that we’d add our own to the story of it. And we did.

I bloomed the coffee grounds and a memory came back to me. I cleared my throat and choked something back. I don’t quite know what it was. Grief, maybe. Nostalgia for a not-so-distant past. You came home from a long day at work and you were laughing over something ridiculous a coworker said. You went straight to the refrigerator, grabbed two oranges, and sat down at the table to peel them. You handed me the first orange. It wasn’t anything grand, you know. It was an orange. But it was an act of love. You had worked the long day and you gave me the first orange. I kissed your neck and sat beside you as we ate them together.

I poured the coffee into our mugs, then sugar and soymilk how we liked. I sat yours down in front of you. Didn’t even bother with a coaster. I wanted that mug to leave a mark that I would remember forever. I blew on my coffee and yours went down too-hot, like I always told you. And I told you that time, too. “You should let it cool. It’s bad for you to drink something so hot.” You grinned and took another sip like your tongue and throat were in defiance. I blew across the surface of my mug before taking another drink.

The trees were orange outside of our window. Everything is orange. I thought of the story by David Foster-Wallace. That was my favorite story and I can’t remember how many times I read it to you and how many times you pretended to listen. The trees were orange outside of our window. The love you showed me was orange. The sunset on our wedding night was oranger than anything. Everything is orange. I watched the maple leaves dance to the ground. You watched the squirrels play in the piles of them. Our pumpkins finally grew that year.

That was the worst cup of coffee I ever had and I wanted to know how it was for you. Washing one mug is so much harder than washing two.

The trees are green today as I write this all down and I am quite certain I’ll never send it to you. I haven’t seen you around much. Three months ago I took a bus to the farmers market and I thought I saw you picking up some peaches. The farmer laughed at something you said and I wish I could have heard it.

Have you gone on any dates since we ended things? I can’t bring myself to do it yet. I’m afraid that everyone will remind me of you. What if you share a favorite song or a favorite meal? What if your eyes are the same beautiful color? It’s not fair for me to fall in love when I am still in love with you. I think that would have made things easier, if I hated you. Every goddamn day I wake up and I wish that I hated you. I wish I could go out for drinks with my friends and tell them about all the shitty things you said to me in our final hours. I wish you were so horrible that it was almost funny. I don’t know what else to say. I just…I wasn't prepared for a fizzling out sort of love, a love that just runs dry. I was in this for a not-going-down-without-a-fight love. You were so tender until there wasn’t anything left at all, and I still wonder what about me changed. But with that final forehead kiss you still had the nerve to tell me that I was perfect. I wonder if that was the only lie you ever told me.

I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you. I hate this small town that makes me afraid to leave my house. Because what if I see you? What if I see you with a girl who looks like me or with a girl that is something that I could never dream of being?

It’s only been six months and here I am thinking of you. I drink my coffee just the same and I sat my mug down right next to the stain that you left on that last day. I peel my own oranges. I carry all the groceries inside. I don’t laugh at the funny parts of our favorite shows, but I still glance over to the spot you should be on the couch. I know the second you would have laughed and I can still hear it. There’s only one toothbrush on the bathroom sink. I don’t do laundry much anymore. I don’t turn the lights on very much.

Do you know how long it's been since I turned on the car radio? It’s embarrassing. My records have been gathering dust like you wouldn’t imagine. The one you bought for my birthday last year still sits in my record player, though, and I think I’m going to blow it off soon and listen to at least one side. Maybe not the side we would dance to.

For now, I am not okay. I spend the days counting raindrops like tears. It’s quiet, these days. I hope you are well, love. Really I do. I look forward to the night I stop dreaming about you and the way I would sneak my phone out at work to read a message from you like a teenager. I can’t express that feeling except by saying that I thought those butterflies would rip me wide open from top to bottom. There were so many of them. And just like monarchs–orange, fleeting, temporary–they’ve gone away.