We never got those towels his and hers. Those matching pajamas. Our pillows didnt even match, which I know irked you. Sometimes I wonder if you woke up every morning and immediately felt cross because of my pillow, and yours. Yours and mine.
But if you did, you never showed it. You woke me with a kiss and a smile more radiant than the sunrise that we never saw, nestled deeply as we were in the jungle of apartment buildings. Perhaps, then, you were cross about many things. The way I never put away my shoes, so you always were tripping over them; the way I didnt replace the toilet paper when we ran out; the way I wouldnt write mustard on the grocery list when I used the last of it. If it bothered you, you never said it. I had my flaws, and you had yours. Yours and mine.
I suppose its best we didnt get those towels, those pajamas, matching pillows. Even now little things remind me of you, things that didnt used to have any significance. I cant even drink coffee anymore. Ive never again attempted to make meringue cookies, not so much afraid that theyd turn out wrong as afraid that theyd turn out right. Two months afterward I found your shirt that I used to sleep in, the one you won at that office party that we crashed. Sometimes I wonder if that bothered you, the way that I did things like that. Like when I decided that instead of planting real flowers in our window box, I would plant little whirligigs; bright, sparkling beacons of what real flowers could never be, beautiful in their artificiality.
And now, months and months afterward, I wonder why I thought I could stay here. After all, this place will never be mine, just like it could never be yours. It was ours. Yours and mine.