Letting Go

I dreamt about you again last night.

I’m sad, because I can never remember all the details exactly, and it only happens every once in awhile, even though I fall asleep every night thinking of you, regardless.

I’ve re-read the journal you gave me for the millionth time.

Partly because I’d gotten into my head to desensitize myself to it, but it hasn’t worked yet.

Your words still haunt me as I sit in our empty coffee shop.

I play with your ring in my hands.

“For a special girl?” a voice asks.

It’s the barista from last time, the same notepad, same quirk of clicking the pen a few times every so often.

“Yes. Well…it was.” I correct myself. “She was.”

You were.

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. “I don’t mean to pry.”

I shrug.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want anything?” she asks.

“No thanks,” I say, shaking my head.

She walks off and then returns with a hot mug of something, placing it defiantly in front of me.

“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble…” I start, realizing that it’s way past closing time.

“My manager doesn’t care enough to stick around this late,” she shrugs with one shoulder. “It gets lonely here. Besides, you look like you need it.”

She sits down across from me, but I don’t mind.

Actually, I’m happy for the company.

Company from someone who knows close to nothing about me.

“Do you like working here?” I find myself asking, if only for simple conversation and so that she won’t ask me about myself. Because I wouldn’t know what to tell her if that were the case.

“This is a side-thing,” she expands. “I’m a starving artist,” she shrugs in that odd way again.

“What do you do?”

“Paint, mostly.”

“Are you good?”

“I like to think so,” she smiles.

We fall comfortably silent with a few remarks here and there until I finish whatever’s in the mug.

“I should get going,” I supply.

I have my first therapy session early in the morning, with the one Victoria found for me.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” she says, smiling and taking my mug back to the counter so that she can start to close up the shop.

“I’m going out of town,” I say, not really knowing why.

“Maybe when you get back, then. Listen, I hope things get better for you,” she gives a sympathetic half-smile.

I attempt to return the smile as I leave, but I'm not sure I succeed.

I’ve decided to do it, for you.

I’m going on tour, amor.