You looked down at me.
I hear the violins.
The next words were impossible.
My world was made of glass and memories, and all of them crashed into a broken dust about me. You didn’t know. You honestly had no idea. What violins?
You are the violins.
That dark hole inside of me, the one that I ignored as long as you asked me to, sucked the life out of me. I was lost, so far lost I couldn’t feel anything. I fell, away from you, away from my body, away from reality. What violins?
How could you ever ask such a question?
I was silent. You had been everything to me. I tucked my head against your chest and kept myself from weeping.
I would not cry in front of you.
Someone got to the end of the trail before us. An ambulance was already there, and you got in with me. Go away, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to sear you with my words. I wanted you to die. Go away.
Instead, you were there, and fine, and smiling that same smile you had when you bought me the ice cream. Smiling your selfish smile.
What violins? You asked me again.
We used to live next door to each other, I told you. We were best friends. You bought me ice cream. We knew his name. We went to movies together. When we were together, I heard violins. You understood. We weren’t ever apart.
I don’t remember, you said, oblivious.
You kissed me, I told you.
It was a long time ago, you excused.
We were one person, I told you.
People grow apart, you shrugged.
“No. People don’t grow apart, not like that. Don’t tell me that people grow apart. We were in love. We were perfect. People don’t grow apart. One of them just chooses to forget.
“Why did you choose to forget?”
The violins finally stopped.