I miss A sometimes. I’ll be waiting at the station, and a boy will walk out of a train with his backpack, reminding me of A who always carried one. There is comfort in remembering someone who looked forward to seeing me, who thought he could have me, someone who waited for me. There is comfort in remembering his apartment and the unfamiliar setting that, for a short while, became familiar. There is comfort in remembering him offering me a plate of chicken for dinner or him introducing me to his sister, who reminds him to be a gentleman and walk me to the subway at the end of the night. There is comfort in remembering the kisses we shared, and the time I slept next to him and remained awake all night listening to his breathing, and learning of his sudden, jolting movements that worried me. There is comfort in remembering those early evenings where we sat across from each other at a coffee shop, looking at magazines and thinking out loud. And that time he told me he thought he knew my mother when I talked about her. There is comfort in remembering his face, even those cold eyes that met mine when it was all over—that piercing, betrayed look that I would always remember.
I miss A sometimes as I drift through the streets of Manhattan, on the train going over the bridge back to Brooklyn, at a Spanish café with dim lights, at my apartment when I write and think of his writing-how the first time he read something out loud I was struck by the honesty and wit his words carried. I missed him the day I passed the aquarium store where he told me about his fondness for fish. I walked across the Williamsburg bridge and remembered our walk that Sunday morning where we sat on a bench facing the river after we crossed over. I sat on the same bench and pictured us sitting there together, him thinking he had a future with me. I sat there and watched the sunset and he became a bittersweet memory- bitter for my betrayal, sweet for the memories we shared.
I remember him saying New York was unfit for him, and I remember not understanding what he meant. There is comfort in knowing that I understand him now, years later, that I comprehend the depth of loneliness one can feel in such a city.
There is comfort in missing someone, but then there is the emptiness yet to be filled.