Had you known that was the last time you could be together, you would clasp your fingers around his and say, “Let’s run away.”
But you hadn’t known that or else you would become neurotic: pulses jumped wildly, nails got bitten, scared look in your eyes, and a desperate want to runaway. But you hadn’t known that and you talked with him in your usual way instead. He smiled and laughed at your last joke. He handed his paper glass of chocolate, still untouched and hot, and said `thank you`. He patted your head and slipped something, later, to the pocket of your coat.
You hadn’t had the chance to find out what he had slipped until recently, because things had been busy and hectic and you knew that he would always forgive you.
But that wasn’t the case now, it seemed.
Now you sat in front of hotel’s television. Watching television was never your thing; you did this to pass the time. There was a conference three hours away and the audience loved you and they would be thrilled to hear you speaking about your newest book. But there was time to be stalled, and you decided to turn on the television instead.
Now you regretted it, didn’t you? You regretted not figuring out what was in your pocket and you regretted turning the television on?
With a lump slowly forming on your throat you threw the television remote. Voices blazed on the screen; a reporter, two more, a montage of pictures of an airport, then more airports which always seemed alien and strange to you, then crying faces of women and men and children, and the news rolled on the background as you dipped your fingers to your coat’s pocket.
Then you found it; what he had slipped earlier, only yesterday afternoon, during his departure.
It was a polaroid photograph of a beach. Sky sprawled above the cerulean sky, calm and reassuring, and you could hear him saying, in your ear and with hands on your shoulders, “Let’s go there when we’ve finished our business. Let’s go there and forget everything else.”
You choked a sob and clutched the polaroid photograph close to your heart, or rather what was left of it.
"The victims had been identified," There were names being read out and you hated how the reporter pronounced his name because she shouldn’t do it like that; she should’t speak his name easily because it was a benediction, it was a memory— “..one of them being the lover of—" now your name being mentioned and you didn’t hear the rest of it because you were screaming.
The polaroid photograph was torn and crushed between your fingers.
You sank to the floor and thought about sea and sky and Ed Sheeran`s Photograph because it was the last thing you two listened together and you wished it was that easy to forget.
But it was not, you knew that.
And it would never be.