Don't Be A Stranger

I remember all of it.

I remember the heavy front door with the welcome bell that rings a semitone lower than the oven. The leather couch by the entrance that clashes with the homely, wooden decor. The sundry playlist curated by you and the other baristas. The enduring aroma of cinnamon and toasted sourdough.

I remember your polite, welcoming smile, and how it grows when you see a regular like me.

I remember when I was more than that.

“I remember you!” you exclaim from behind the register. “Medium iced mocha with a spritz of white chocolate, right?”

I remember to hold back the delirious joy I feel from seeing you again. I stiffly nod and comment on your great memory. After all, it's been almost half a year since I last came here.

I remember you tapping your head where the stitches used to be. “The good ones never leave this lil’ noggin,” you say.

I remember the day I became more than just a "good one". After a few more talks at the bar in between you taking and making orders, I gathered the courage to get your number. You rolled your eyes and said you thought I'd never ask. A week later, we had our first date. A week after that was our second. Every day together was better than the day before...until it wasn't.

I remember the price of my order and pay it gladly. With no one else behind me, you have time to ask the question I had been dreading. “How’ve you been?”

I remember the answer I spent too long coming up with: "I've been busy with the move. But I was in the area and thought I'd say hi."

I remember you asking why, when, and where. I say a month ago and a city four hours away; simple truths to keep your curiosity at bay.

I remember you've always been perceptive, and you purse your lips with disappointment. Before you can say anything else, though, I fill the silence with a stupid, heartbreaking joke, "It's not you, it's me."

I remember your laugh– simple, sweet, earth-shattering– and hearing it now confirms that coming back here was a mistake.

I remember the rest of it, the rest of us. Ours was a love that could defy gods, one they could write stories about us. I never believed two people could ever be so perfect for each other, but you were everything I never knew I needed. I was everything you always wanted. We began and ended so many of our sentences with "...until I met you." Until I met you, I was alive but not living. Until I met you, I didn't realize arguments could last longer than a day. I didn't know I could ever fear losing someone until I met you.

I remember the long days and longer nights; the warm embraces and cold shoulders. Screaming, crying, sleeping on the couch because the tension in our room was so thick it was giving you nightmares. Over and over again, we would say "We can't keep doing this to ourselves." Over and over again, we would break up and be back in each other's arms the next week. Over and over again, we said we would make it work this time without changing a thing.

I remember it was you who finally broke the cycle. You pushed that pamphlet my way as we sat at our dining room table, if I could even say it was ‘ours’ anymore. I stared at it with disbelief and denial.

iRemember: The latest neuro-scientific breakthrough! One simple surgery and those pesky memories you’d rather do without are gone for good! Now offering a discounted rate for recently separated couples!

I remember arguing about the ethical implications of the surgery, but you peeled the rug back so I could admit I was just scared. You were always good at that– cutting past my bullshit and getting me to say what’s really on my mind. Then you said you were scared too, scared of losing me and the love that was still there, that would always be there.

I remember I tried to come up with a stronger argument, a miracle drug that would fix everything. All you needed to say was "I just want you to be happy again."

I remember holding your hand as we waited to be taken to the OR. Even in a hospital gown with your eyes puffy and red, you still looked serene. Your soft fingers traced over my palm lines, gentle yet firm as if you were mapping out every part of me that you could. “How far do you think you’ll count down before the anesthesia kicks in? I think I’ll get to eight,” you said before chuckling.

I remember saying “I think I’ll get all the way to zero.” I had a calm, confident smile because that’s what you needed. But when the nurses arrived, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.

I remember you holding on until they pulled you into a separate operating room, the moment it finally became real. “I love you,” you said one more time. “Always remember that, okay?”

“I’ll remember,” I respond. “I love you too.”

I remember the sensory overload as we pressed into my operating room. The burning odor of iodine and iron, the fluorescent lights that burned my eyes, and the overlapping chatter of the surgeons. I managed to pick up words like subject and preparation; they were talking as if I was already gone. The only one that acknowledged my existence was the anesthesiologist, who asked me to count backwards from ten after putting my face mask on.

I remember not making it past eight.

I remember waking up with my head shaved and a scar above my forehead. There was a throbbing, dizzying ache behind my eyes, and when the doctor arrived he said that was a normal. He said he was here to do my post-surgery assessment, but before he can even start, I asked where you were.

I remember his smile dropping and him leaving the room for another hour. When he returned, he told me my surgery "didn't take". He reminded me that this was an "experimental procedure" and we knew the risks. His voice was shaky, he thought I would be upset enough to sue, but I wasn't.

I remember telling myself this was the best outcome. A love like ours should never be forgotten, and I’m glad to be the one that would keep it. All of it. The good and the bad. I would carry our torch even if I burned.

I remember your eyebrow quirking up like when you’d work on a crossword puzzle or decide what dish towels to buy. “Is there something else you need?” she asks. I realize that my feet have kept me planted in front of you.

“I…” Remember what this is, I tell myself. Your laughter, your smile, your joy is more real than I’ve seen in a long time. This isn't hello, it's goodbye. I cannot be the one who takes that from you again, even if the fire is spreading to my bones. “...just wanted to say thanks again. For this. For the coffee.”

I remember your smile reaching your eyes as you say, “Aww thanks! I hope you enjoy it.”

I remember nodding and going to say goodbye, but another customer has already grabbed your attention. The moment passes before I can even try to hold onto it.

I remember my feet moving before I'm ready to go. I quickly grasp the handle before I can convince myself to stay. The cold air hits me and sobers me up for the long drive. “Bye! Don’t be a stranger!” another barista exclaims.

I remember not to look back.