Silver Springs

“I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man."

Che Guevara said this when he was shot dead. I read it in history when I was fifteen years old. I remember thinking they were a strange choice of last words. And this was what came to my mind when Mamie sat next to me one day and said, “This has to end. I’m so tired.”

I looked at her deeply set brown eyes. Her long fingers were draped on my arm and they grazed my skin in a tantalizing way. She said these things aloud, but her body did not cooperate.

And I thought, “I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man."

Because that’s what she was doing. She was going to ruin me, but we would not die. Because it’s impossible for whatever it was we had to die. Even if I hated her, I knew I would love her. Even if I got married and had some kids, I knew that I would think of her and say, What if? What if?

I said nothing. My breathing grew louder and faster, like I didn’t know to cry or yell or what. She cried these awful silent tears, but I said nothing, just looked at her skin on my skin and wondered if I had ever felt so lonely in my life.

“This isn’t good anymore,” she said, “For either of us. And I love you so much, but I’m not happy.”

I wasn’t happy either. But I’d rather be unhappy with her than unhappy and alone. When things were good, they were the best. And now things had fallen into the deepest crevices of sadness. I didn’t know how it happened. But it did.

“I understand what you’re saying,” I finally said, “But I still don’t want to.”

“I know. I know,” she murmured and placed her hand on my cheek. Within a second, my lips were on hers, like the wave of a white flag. She pulled away and shook her head. “No. We’ll take one step forward and two steps backwards, Gunnar. And I’m not willing to do that.”

I looked at her face. And it was so blocked off and cold, that I retreated like a wounded child. I got up and walked to the bedroom where I fell asleep for a long time, hoping that it had been a dream or the whisper of a faraway demon.

Later, I stirred to the rustling of the blankets beside me and I groggily recognized her figure climbing into bed with me.

“Oh, Gunnar. Just one last time,” she murmured, “I love you. Just once more.”

And we both cried a little and kissed. I breathed her in as I took off her shirt and she lingered on my neck with her soft lips. And we made love until we could bear it no longer and we promised each other it was the last time and we wouldn’t take it back even if we begged.

And all night, I thought, “I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man."