The Next Time

He will read it; the narrative that unfolds some years later. He will read the pages, like he is being born through the eyes of someone who he let slip away; someone whom he could have attended to more closely at the time. A fleeting memory of her laugh will fill him with the kind of recognition of suddenly becoming aware of light in the background of a picture you’ve seen a thousand times before, and he will take the last sip of the beer in his hand and drink to the memory of her; remembering something that he forgot to tell her, something which seemed innocuous at the time, but now has gained the importance only retrospection brings. He will feel himself in the absence that she writes about, and in that, know her better than ever. He will then, quite quickly, drown out the thoughts of the strange sense of disconnect that he feels, and allow himself to miss her for only a fraction of a second, before he closes the book and goes to bed with another woman. She will have no idea what has occurred inside his head just moments before he reaches for her, after turning out the light. She will interpret his hands as love, and she will swoon in that moment. She might even tell him then, that she loves him. This, will be her mistake.