Written by Gavin Miller
An hour to sunset on a February Saturday I told James, while we were in only boxers on my bedframe-less mattress: I can’t see you anymore. He’d just made us soup.
“I’m sorry, J. I am. But we were never really officially, in, you know, a relationship, and I’m not ready anyways, so I don’t want to hurt you, and if we keep going the way we’ve been going, I feel like we will have to accept the relationship that follows, and—”
James swallowed loudly. I shut up, leaned in, and acted like a better listener might.
“It’s just so abrupt. But, but…”
Was he swallowing or choking up?
“I just…” he wiped his left eye.
“You can tell me, but I’m going to get my shirt on,” I told him. He didn’t move when I rose and stripped my fingers, one by one, from their place on his thigh.
“It’s just, I should have told you, I know, but this was my first time.” I moved to interrupt him; he raised his hand. “Not ever. Just never before with a guy. And I can’t help but feel like I’ve been missing something. This has just been so wonderful, and I have to ask, what is it that you can’t commit to? You told me you need something solid in your life,” I moved to interrupt and he again stopped me. “And when was that, a month ago? You never said love, but you know what you’re doing when you rub my thigh like that, and watch me like you do, and—I’m sorry this is pathetic. But you certainly know what you’ve been doing. And I know what I’ve been feeling and—”
My right hand lifted. I vowed that I wouldn’t use this method to avoid tough conversations, but I abandoned this promise as my own tears piled. They were frustrated and caring tears, upset and infatuated tears. My ring and center fingers pressed sharply into James’ temple and an orange light appeared, matching the window’s clouds.
“In one hour, you will wake up, and not remember me, James. We will have never met.”
His head, then shoulders, then waist fell limp. I caught him.
It was awkward, carrying his sedated body to the car. Two strangers tossed me odd looks, and I smiled, laughing. I pretended we were engaged in some silly game. The gas sputtered before it ran; the Corolla lurched before it drove.
My Bluetooth wasn’t working and the radio was obnoxious, so I drove in silence. James’ head leaned against the door’s handle, and I worried his ear might accidently unlock it. At a stop light, I extended my arm to adjust his head, but my grip ended up settling on his dark, overgrown hair. His skin was lit velvet by the drop of the sun, and everything became suddenly peaceful.
Watching his slow breath, my own strict demeanor loosened. With the gift that extended from my fingers’ edges, I was destined to a life without concrete dependance. Or so I’d told myself.
And yet, as he slept under the very command I casted, everything was all too perfect, and I did not want my grip to leave his head.
I pulled his body from the car, nonetheless. This was all performed cautiously, so that I would not hurt him; so that, also with his memory carefully removed by me, he could not be hurt by my actions. I mentioned on the bed that this was all for his sake. But doubt set in as to how true that was while I carried him up the emergency stairs to his apartment, and this doubt doubled when I tucked him into his framed bed before kissing his head, before crying as I left.
This doubt grew into wondering whether I could even tell if I was in love, and it continued for weeks, until this morning, when I saw him at the grocery store, looking through frozen soup. I approached him and asked for his number, knowing it was already saved in my phone. Because yes, this was love: a selfish, unfair love. But this time no one might have to be made to forget.
.
Gavin Miller is a writer who resides in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His other work appears in various publications including Maudlin House, God’s Cruel Joke, and on his Substack @wheneverwhatsoever.