Picasso

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 You took me to an art gallery once. It was our first date, a special exhibition on Picasso. And neither of us are really painters, but as we walked through and read the plaques, you told me about his earlier artworks. 

And I don’t think of you often anymore, but when I do, I think of how you commented on his classical painting training and technique. And how you emphasised that him, being Picasso, became Picasso out of choice. That his artwork was revolutionary because he intentionally painted like that. That he had the skills to rival any painter of his time, but he chose to become Picasso. 

And when I think of that, I think about the time you found me eating burnt toast. I chose to burn the bread, and eat it. But you took the bread from me, saying you’d already had a long day and didn’t need to be tested like this. You sighed, and made a new piece of toast for me. Slightly crisp, mostly soft. How I usually like my toast. 

But I know how to make toast. The burnt toast was my Picasso. But you took it from me, and gave me what you thought I wanted. 

I think that might have defined our time together. 

And today, I’m at the coffee store we used to come to. I’ve ordered our usual order. A flat white with hazelnut syrup, and a long black. And I know this will be too much caffeine for me, but this place takes over my instincts and I order before I have the opportunity to think.

I will give two days of my three hundred and sixty-five to you. One, on the anniversary of our relationship. The other, on the anniversary of our breakup. 

It’s a commemoration of sorts. We did celebrate our anniversary four times together, after all. And perhaps you are still chasing time by the heels, desperately stretching what you have of it. Perhaps this is nothing more than a block on your calendar.

But time is kind to me. I sit with it, breathe with it. I wallow in its softness and it soothes my edges. 

And so today is the anniversary of our breakup. It has been exactly a year. 

I heard that you were promoted, shortly after we broke up. You might’ve heard that I quit my job. 

I heard that your friend, the one who introduced us, got married. You might’ve heard that I was unable to attend because I had left this city.

I heard that you never told anyone why things ended between us. You might’ve heard that I stopped speaking. 

But today, I said our coffee order. 

And a week from now, my next book will be published. The first book had been experimental. Each book came with a postcard of burnt toast, and people had sent their unsaid words. To friends, to family, to strangers. An idea I worked on with my publisher, as a token of gratitude from myself. It had become tokens of appreciation for others, little rectangles of communication. How long has it been since you’ve picked up a pen? You never kept the letters I wrote to you when were together, but I still keep the strains of your smile.

At this moment, I sip on the coffee. The sweet nuttiness of the syrup intermingles with the faint acidity of the coffee. The oat milk is soothingly creamy, aerated without being burnt. 

And the long black which governs the empty seat is still untouched, solitary and perhaps slightly too emblematic. You always liked things a little acerbic. I always liked things a little sweet. We always wanted what we couldn’t have.

Because it turned out, I was a little too sweet for you. And you were a little too bitter for me. But we tried, and we tried a little too hard. 

And here you are, stepping into the café. Your coffee has gone cold. The dust particles dancing in the sunlight of your seat frenzy as you interrupt them.

We’ve both kept our promises. Me, to stay away from you for a year. You, to meet me one last time today.

You look the same, but you no longer feel familiar. 

I watch you reach for your cup.

I wonder if I miss you, but I don’t seem to feel anything of the sort. 

You down half the coffee. 

“Same taste, hey?”

I nod. 

There’s a bit of a pause. It lengthens.

I watch you. I used to think I could watch you forever. But now, it feels as if just these few moments has been more than enough.

Your jaw still twitches when you’re uncomfortable. 

You down the rest of the coffee.

“I might head off now, if that’s all. I know you were never great with words, and I’ve got to go.”

I nod.

“Oh, congrats on your book by the way. I heard it was good.”

And before I can react, you’ve already gone. 

On your side of the table, you’ve left something. Tucked behind the coffee cup, just out of my sight. 

You’ve left me my own postcard. And written in blue ink, in handwriting I don’t actually recognise,

I’m sorry.