FOR ABOUT A YEAR, we saw each other almost weekly. I know the fastest way to his place from the train station — not his suburb’s station, but the next one over, which is much closer — and that the intercom button to his apartment ruins the symmetry of the others. It sits isolated and away, placed oddly out of line.
But we don’t talk anymore, so that information is useless, really. I don’t need to know his favourite way of consuming the news, that he only has four pairs of shoes or the fastest way to his house from that station, because the love is gone.
I was one of the first people she picked up when she got her drivers licence — I can still remember what she looked like as I emerged from my parents’ front door, gleeful as she held the car keys aloft, by her face. I’m not sure where she took us for that first drive — likely Maccas, if we’re being honest — but it’s not important that I have that memory anymore.
It doesn’t matter that I know her elegant features and lithe limbs disguise an inclination for beer and durries, or that she hates bananas; that I still think of her around Christmas time or that I know her first car was some shitty, little blue thing, because the love is gone.
And though my vision of it is blurry, I still hold the image of another love lost — younger, sweeter. In this one, we are ice-skating with friends. He is shrugging off their teasing and his hoodie for my shoulders — was it white or grey? — bearing the words and the chill so I wouldn’t feel the cold.