Abigail M. Schilling

I remember the first time we had pears. It was so long ago, when we were still "young." It was right after work and you had loosened your tie and you were clean-shaven for your first big corporate meeting.

I remember thinking as I watched your hand guide the knife that you could cut anything with that knife.

That scared me a little, the realization that I was losing control to you. But it only scared me for a little while because you learned me like a textbook, like when you studied those books for so long before your exam and when you would study cases on late nights.

We spent such long nights back then, you tucked in the corner of the couch and me tucked in the corner of you. I was writing my first great American novel and you were studying, always studying. Remember when it was so hard? To stay focused on writing and reading when we were so close to each other?

Remember how we were frustrated about such simple things then?

***

I had a pear tonight. I was sitting on the porch of my apartment--I moved, you know--my knees pulled up to my chin with a small paring knife. The juice dripped down all over my hand and I cried.

You would have handed me a napkin, then grabbed my sticky fingers and intertwined them in your clean ones, and then you would have kissed me. Instead, I sat there with a paring knife belonging to an ex-boyfriend and the pain of the loss of you.

I've started a bad habit of rubbing the spot on my left hand where there never was a ring. I never wanted a ring, I know. We always talked about that, the symbolism of what we were and until recently we always agreed. We were first on speed dial, we knew each other's social security numbers, childhood best friends, and you knew every single freckle on my back. I didn't need a ring. I didn't want a ring.

People might understand more if I had had a ring.

The thing is, people never understood. That's why you, you, could cut the pears and hold my sticky hands. And here I am talking about me again when that's all you ever wanted.

***

"But if you guys love each other..."

I stopped counting the number of times people have said that, trailing off. I've dared them to finish that sentence but no one ever can.

If we love each other what?

What?

I didn't eat pears for four and a half months. I always figured people would notice, that they would notice something different whether it be the pears or the rubbing. They had always noticed I didn't have a ring.

We did the right thing. I remember that night. We both agreed. It wasn't in anger or judgement, if anything it was relief. Relief from the arguing and the pain that had taken up residence in every conversation, in every text message, in every sleeping moment.

Every stop light had become a symbol of the glaring crossroads. I couldn't get us takeout with analyzing every chopstick and you couldn't talk without making me cry. I hated that. Making you make me cry. It was awful.

Damn it.

That's why we stopped.

Letter to a Traveling Lover (part I)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part II)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part III)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part IV)