Off Again

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Anna instant messaged to ask if she could stop by that night, after I put the kids to bed.

She was going to be in my neighborhood for rehearsals, and wanted to retrieve utensils and a pan she had recently brought to my place to prepare dinner for me and the kids.

I teased her about this.

Jefferson: What, you are cleaning out my kitchen? Did we break up again? Why am I always the last to know?

Anna: No, silly. We are good. I’m just doing a lot of cooking lately and I miss my stuff.

The kids usually go to bed at nine or so. She planned to be at my place by a quarter to ten.

After the kids were fed, bathed and tucked away, I finished the dishes and gathered Anna’s things into a bag.

It was a warm night. I poured a bourbon and sat down for the first time since dinner.

I was beat.

Anna knocked.

I stood to answer the door.

We kissed hello.

She was dressed in sweats, her hair wet with perspiration. She looked worn out from the exertions of rehearsing after eight hours at her day job.

I offered her a drink. We sat heavily onto the couch.

“So how’s your week been?” I asked. We had seen each other a few days before.

“Good, fine. Rehearsals are good. Very physical, very challenging choreography. And your week?”

“Can’t complain. Lots of work, and I have the kids for five days, so there’s a lot to juggle. But, you know, the usual.”

“Yeah, you have a busy life.”

“We both do.”

“So, listen.” Anna adjusted her body to sit on one leg. She cupped her glass in one palm. “I really don’t think I can continue to see you.”

A wave of exhaustion passed over me.

“No?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She sipped her bourbon and paused. “It’s just that . . . you know, I really want to think ahead to my future. I want to be married and make my parents into grandparents. This means I need to think about when I am going to be a mother, whether I am going to have kids or make myself a part of someone’s family. And that’s just not what you want.”

“No, right now it really isn’t. We’ve talked about that a lot . . .”

“I know. And here we sit, after seeing one another for over a year. And we are basically in the same place.”

“I suppose so.”

“So anyway . . .” she put her glass on the coffee table and reached into her bag. “I wrote something I would like you to read.”

“You prepared a statement?”

“Well, more of a . . . few thoughts.” She handed me a folded page.

“You want me to read this now?”

“Yes, please.”

I opened the page. It was full of text, single-spaced.

My eyes scanned the phrases.

I folded the page and put it down.

“Very poetic.”

“That’s what you have to say?”

“You write very movingly.”

“Do you have anything else to say?”

I thought for a moment.

“No, not really. I mean, you’ve evidently given this some thought and preparation. I just put the kids to bed, and fifteen minutes later, you are here breaking up with me.”

“I know.”

“So I don’t have anything new to say since the last time you broke up with me.”

We sat for a few moments.

“Well,” I said, standing. “Let me get your stuff from the kitchen.”

“Um, okay.”

We went into the kitchen. I opened the bag and inventoried the items.

She asked about a pair of tongs. They were in my drawer. I retrieved them and added them to the bag.

I took her to the door.

“Let’s talk when we aren’t exhausted,” I said.

“Okay.”

We embraced for a long time.

We kissed.

She left.

I locked the door.

About a week later, I received an envelope in the mail. It was from Anna. Inside was this poem.

Love After Love
By Derek Wolcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

And say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

The envelope had a stamp that read “Love. Thirty-seven cents.”

If the past is any guide, I would soon receive a CD of evocative songs.

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Derek Wolcott