She said, “If you kiss me, it’s over.”
Right at that moment, clothed and laid side by side in bed, I had never wanted something to be over as much as I wanted that distance between us to be. I wanted the erasure of that last physical barrier more than anything else. Yet, she wouldn’t give in, and none of my kisses to her exposed hip bones just above the waist of her jeans, or my caresses of her shoulders, could sway her to align her lips to mine and make everything I wanted to happen come true.
Because that’s what happens when you’re really over, and I don’t mean that cute distance that she wouldn’t cede, but me and her. That was what was really over, and there was no way a kiss was going to bring it back. Sure, we both made claims to ourselves that all the pieces and parts to our old love were still around, and could theoretically be put back together. But we both knew that those parts had had their assembling screws thrown into the sea months ago. We were doomed to be apart, unassembled, and unmade for the rest of time.
We had talked about it once; had a long discussion over a good meal about whether or not we could try again. The consensus was that if we did get back together, “like it was before,” we would just end up eventually shooting each other dead in the street, like something out of an old western movie.
We laid beside each other, as we had for the years before the split. Only now the blankets between us were tinged not with comfort and security, but of a longing for what was, and couldn’t ever be again.
I grabbed her chin, she relented, and we kissed. Because it wouldn’t change anything, and a single kiss couldn’t fix the kind of finality we had achieved. We were over long ago. Still, she tasted delicious, like she always had. Because thankfully, some things never end.