Versions

I spend a lot of time revising you, but not our goodbye.  It has remained the way I remember it.  

The set-up: we accidentally meet up on the street and we both pretend we never see each other.  Then we turn down the same backstreet and meet each other’s eyes.  I hold my breath and you heave a sigh.  You say, Look, without ever averting your gaze from me.  I put my palm up in front of your face, and you stop at Look and continue to stare back.  I look at and into your eyes, trying to see more than my face in them.  Then I zoom out, and see you in front of me, without me.  I pair you up with the next girl who passes by and feel like lashing out, There’s somebody else, right? And know that the you in front of me and the dozen or more girls that pass by will be what you will look like after this, after me.

I take you by the shoulder and tell you, Look, look at me, even though you are already looking at me.  I stare back at you, memorizing this moment: our faces inches away from each other, the permanent creases in between your eyebrows, the waters that well up at the corner of my eyes, and the foggy distortion of your face.  I stand back, swallow everything my friends taught me to say, and everything I wish for you to say. I look down at your shoes and guess quietly what the color of your socks is.  Then I turn and walk away from you, muting what could’ve possibly been a goodbye.

I do not look back.  I have a feeling that if I did, you wouldn’t be looking at me anymore.