distancing is an art that remains unmastered, she told me. sifted through the albums, generous face awash in a jukebox mood. no small surprise. hard to perfect something that simply happens. who in this world is the best at hurricaning? getting hit by a bus? …when she loses interest… then she paused between Dire Straits and Billy Joel, raised an eyebrow… or he? when he loses interest?

just she, i said, lit a cigarette. but not only she, if i’m sure you understand.

when they lose interest, she continued, it goes away all at once. people like to pretend there’s a slow build, gradual increments. less sex, of course, if any. but that’s an almost superficial concern compared to the day she walks away from you in the middle of a story. maybe then she doesn’t spend quite so much time near you at parties, gigs, any event where there’s any option past your presence. there used to be kisses between hello and goodbye. that sense… sinking into your empty stomach that you’ve become less of a desire and more of a weather report. shell casing. an umbrella that won’t open. gift card for a store that long since went out of business…

i stared across the room, subterranean and russet-bricked. pretended to take an interest in empty tables and the remarkable sunlight that chose its moments with such accuracy.

now, re-distancing… she punched out a few numbers. letters. stubby fingers along the buttons of a bygone touchtone… there’s something you can get good at, Lucky. and someone with your track record… the swiftness with which people realize just how ordinary you are. average, bordering on boring… here, last song picked, come on back to the bar with me.

i followed her hips, thought about reaching out to wrap my arm around, how good it once felt to walk side-by-side with someone while they laughed. we hit our marks. barstools waiting. bartender pushing two fresh whiskey-sodas. one lime, one sans. red neon buzzing, blazing circuits radiating down.

re-distancing can be perfected. She reached for my pack, had herself one. offered me the lighter as though it weren’t about to end right back in her hands, ten minutes tops. once you see the signs, you’re going to have the urge to go cold. one-up. top her distance with a little backtrack of your own… don’t. she may not care about you anymore, but she does care. she just doesn’t want to know you know how little you matter. i know what you’re thinking; it’s not technically shutting someone out if what’s inside doesn’t matter to them anymore, but hold on… you’re already kind of ridiculous to her. you used to be funny. now you’re a joke. so keep making jokes. she used to listen to you. keep on talking. keep on keepin’ on. feed her disinterest. let it blossom. and while she’s learning just how incidental you are, possibly always were, make your own plans…

her selections came around, hiss and pop from the speakers. the sniff of a quick return to consciousness, seated up straight in bed. double checking to ensure you haven’t eaten your pillow at some point during the night.

she tapped ash with a wrist folded in fourths, had a drink. re-distancing. when you stand by her, remember she’s already gone. but stay where you are. stop, on the sly, mentioning those plans you once had to visit that one place, maybe for a week or so where you’d get away from it all. with any luck she’s already forgotten that was once a dream you both built one morning in bed, too busy with six months from now to care that in two hours you both had to be at work. your inside jokes stopped making her smile a while ago. first time fumbling for a way to get that underwear off. eggs shaped like legs. the time the cat actually jumped over the moon. let them go. same as your finer qualities. if she once liked a story you wrote, or the particular description of a broken candle, well, that’s just what a brand-new day looks like before it sinks in; then you realize it’s a brand-new day.

i nodded. had another cigarette. watched her beat toes against the bar to a song that insisted life’s so different than it is in your dreams. told her this was a good one.

so you should know, she said, ignoring my attempt at opinion. turned to face me. cupped my scruffy, hollow cheeks in her hands. moved my head. directed my eyes towards hers, as i thanked my knees for not having to stand on their own.

when you look into her eyes, pick your favorite memory, she said. i know you’ve been working hard to kill it because it’s already wounded. deep cuts, blood gushing, seeping into the floor, turning tap shoes into the sound of wet sobs. but hang on to it. let it light your every expression like a runway. she’ll see it and remember just why there was never anything there to begin with. you are what once was. a never-was. your gift is affirmation. and your defense is the knowledge that you haven’t been taken by surprise. you’re not a sucker. you were, of course, the first time you told her how you felt, or cried, or revealed something more of yourself that only served to make you as uninteresting as the person you’ve become. but for now, you can let her be bored. let her realize. and when she finally admits there’s nothing left, there will be nothing. you turned an upside-down table into your favor. got ahead of the game and helped her walk away. you went the re-distance, Lucky.

it felt like she was done with me. pulled back her hair and tied it. shed some new light on those intelligent features and made me wonder how knowing someone for just over an hour could result in what came next.

your song just repeated, i said. same song. did you mean to do that?

she shrugged. crushed the butt of her cigarette, one last exhale.

i killed what was left. wrapped my lips around the straw for good measure. this is my favorite album. one of my favorites of forever and all time.

so? she asked. want to ask me to dance or some dumb fucking thing?

i don’t want to do anything, i said. ever again.

she laughed. i think we just made your favorite memory.

the bartender hardly gave us a mention that morning. we stumbled our way out onto the floor, between a pair of tables. one with a population of two, no longer talking to each other. was it the fact that there was a cat asleep in the corner? a pen stuck to the ceiling with no explanation? or maybe it was just our time to stare. give each other the courtesy of our eyes, arms wrapped close. breath rancid, dry, tongues stuck to the tops of our mouths.

and for a few moments there, we danced towards forward, that day.

we were just so fucked, the two of us secretly agreeing.

dancing to the saddest song in the world.

###

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so long and thanks for all the pish.