I stepped into the bathroom yesterday morning and inexplicably his face wandered into my mind. I stared at the showerhead in the dim light and felt for the tap, twisting it on. I shivered as the cool mist swelled up from the sides of the bath.
In rapid succession I could see the images of us. I remembered one summery night a year or so ago he sat on my bed talking to me while I was in the shower.
I stepped into the steam and the needles of hot water bore into my chest. I smiled thinking about us riding bikes around Zurich, chasing each other through the streets. Floating down ice-fed rivers and lying in the grass in the sun, smoking and drinking beers in the afternoon, like two teenage dreamers.
Digging around the fridge in my shirt and undies for orange juice I thought of shopping in Paris for a frame to fit a little painting I had made just for him.
I can hear his voice as I walk down Martin Place — he used to call me “Sweetie” in his soft accent. I walk past the spot where we hugged our first goodbye after such little time together. It took me weeks to breathe after letting him go.
Just as much time as it took me to start breathing again after we had argued on that last night in Zurich, not six months after we’d first met.
I arrived at work, memories overflowing, so I typed his name into the addressee line of the email. After some gentle moments I pressed ‘Send’.
Later I asked Rosanna if I was a sentimental fool for contacting him again.
“What kind of society have we created when we second-guess letting people we once loved know we are thinking of them?”
She was right. We hold back when we should just say it. It can be scary waiting for a response, but sometimes you just have to put yourself out there.
I got into work this morning, there was an email. My heart doubled as I opened it.