Memory and Loss Pt. 01

Clio never came to that room again, and started smoking more and more, and our loss began. I wanted, but she did not, not enough for me, anyway.

Two weeks later, maybe three, I went down to the place where she lived and knocked on the door of her room, as I had done many times before. I heard movement within, as I had heard many times before, and Clio would welcome me into her room. I turned the knob of the door, as I had done many times before, and Clio would welcome me in. I pushed open the door, as I had done many times before, and Clio...

But this time, I did not cross the threshold and I did not see Clio's smile. I did see her dark eyes, open and wide, ah fuck, open and wide.

I silently closed the door, and never returned to that room.

I left the building, and turned a direction I had never gone before. I walked fast, in a direction I had never gone before, until I could walk fast no longer. I punched a tree to take the pain away, but in the last fraction of a second, I pulled that punch because even then, my rational mind said there is no point damaging your hand. You hurt enough, already.

Two, perhaps three hours later I arrived back at my hall, exhausted. Fuck, I was shattered.

Somebody asked, "A, are you all right?"

"No, I'm not. My heart is ice, now, I think it will crack."

Two, perhaps three weeks later it was the end of term, and I stood on the other side of a road and watched Clio board a bus, to return to her home town. She turned her face up and he kissed her on her lips, and she left.

That night I wrote a simple poem:

I saw her board the Greyhound bus,

The road is long and cold.

Will she stop and think

Before I grow too old?

I returned to my own home town and wrote her some letters. I don't know what I wrote, but I still have her replies. I was angry, clearly, because her replies were righteous, defensive. I never realised the significance that she at least replied. I was too young to realise how important that was. Clio was even younger, we just never knew.

Half way through the next term, we were working on a student drama production together. I was doing lights, I think, and Clio was stage manager. As I stood watching a rehearsal, I became aware of a silent figure by my side. Clio had come up to me, and she put her arm through mine, tentatively.

"How's the walk-through going?" she asked.

"It's going well, it'll be a good production."

"How are you going?" she asked, quietly.

Without looking at her, I took her hand in mine and held it, my hand bigger than her small one.

"Not so good. I need more time, I think."

"OK. I'm sorry, I am so sorry."

I squeezed her hand to acknowledge her desire for forgiveness, but I couldn't say anything.

I was too young, and my heart was too shattered, and I couldn't forgive Clio. Not then.

Two years later, Clio came up to the hall recruiting for student politics. After she had gone, a good friend said to me,

"A, you must have really loved that girl."

"Why? How do you know? What was I doing?"

"Mate, you couldn't take your eyes off her, not once."

It was only six weeks, and it lasted forever.

Sometimes, I see a girl with Clio's smile, sort of.

But it's never really Clio's smile, because it's not for me.

And the other girl's smile is never as beautiful as Clio's smile.

Never. Not the most beautiful smile in the world.