That was the night you and I sat on your fire escape at 2:06 a.m. facing the intersection of 125th Street and Broadway.
We counted four beginnings, four endings, a leap of faith, two payments in default and one too many bottles of Malbec.
You confessed you were not upset at the wrong you did but more upset at me for making a big fuss about it; that you weren’t mad at yourself for lying but mad at me for calling you out on it.
It was then, between one scotch and the other, that I finally understood what the beauty of letting you go, of wanting to start over, was going to be. It was happening in such an ordinary moment and I didn’t even know it.
I never did sit on that fire escape again because of past lovers you should always know very little. Though our ashes had been dispersed there, I didn’t have to know what direction they took after that night.
But looking back now, that was also the year I discovered that the effort it takes to get to know someone isn’t nearly as much as the effort it takes to get to unknow them.
Inspired by Fabien.