Denouement among the lilies

February for our first moment. We’re sitting in a dive bar in Camden Town. It smells of stale beer and gomme syrup; the floor coated by a thin veneer of both. Buzzed from cheap cocktails, you’re staring inquisitively at me. “Are you an optimist or a pessimist?” you ask. “Neither, I’m a realist.” I answer. We laugh. Later, a rushed kiss at the bottom of an escalator.

September for our second. I’m sitting on a plane, convinced Delta Airlines is keen to cryogenically freeze its passengers. Flying to you; to New York City. Rushed and romantic, 2 months on opposite sides of the Atlantic. You were homesick for London, and I for you. I raced to your arms, you kissed me. In that moment, I worried I was more in love with love than with you. I would never tell you this. The thought lay neglected.

Later, in the Met. We walk laid and patterned wood to old lilies of age. You grab my hand; surreptitious stare. Smile. Brief moment witnessed by Monet’s watery tombs. Painted lilies guard depths undisturbed, now disturb me.

It’s two years later. Moments three and four have passed; number unknown. And we call each other affectionate names, and do the things couples should do. Progressing as we’re told. Mindlessly? We’ve said the things to say. I miss you, I like you, I love you, take my spare key, let’s move in together. Flowers on your birthday, restaurants on Valentines. Christmas at your mothers; God how she hated me. Should we get a dog? Should we get married? You want to. We want to. Do I? But to each other?

Meanwhile, all the other things we haven’t said - the problems we ignored. Like the gomme syrup on the floor of the dive bar where our love was founded; invisible to the eye but still sticks beneath our feet.

So young to make such a commitment. The entirety of our twenties spill out before us. I’m thinking about that dive bar in Camden Town. Happy hour led to this? An Ophelian life; dictated to her by men. I’m overthinking, terrified to be fated to those same watery tombs. I would never tell you this. Later, I learn people regret the things they don’t say.

Denouement after a shower. I sat on our bed. Turned to you and said I couldn’t do this anymore. I said what I was supposed to say: it’s not you, it’s me. It was true and still is. We’ve barely spoken since.

Three years on. I see you from across the courtyard in St. Pauls. A far cry from Camden Town. We’re both older and wiser; swapped subway kisses for suits and sensibility. You grab her hand, surreptitious stare. Smile. It’s only a brief moment I witnessed; I hope she loves you differently. I hope you demand the respect you deserve. I hope, I hope, I hope; hidden behind a bed of lilies.

Now, we're caveats to who we’ve become. I buried you in a watery tomb; but our memories happily haunt. Those unexpected ways linger; I still slice cheddar the way you showed me. Raspberries remind me of rekindling. Custom computers with graphics cards and rainbow lights. Pink Floyd. Rocky Balboa. Roxanne. Parkway. Primrose Hill.

And I? Have a career off the LinkedIn you forced my hand in making. Love differently, certainly. Handle cheese knives correctly. Remember to bring jumpers on flights. Listen to the Police. Demand respect only if I can reciprocate. Communicate, even if I don’t want to. Speak my mind unabashedly. Suddenly of age in front of the old lilies. The laid and patterned wood we walked led me here. No longer sticking underfoot, our thirties spill before us.