Veil

I saw you.

December of two thousand eleven. Just another Tuesday. Middle of the fifth semester. Nine of us had been roaming around the city streets. Talking. Laughing. Making memories. On three fingers of diluted single-malt scotch. Stopping, in between to eat at food joints we’d discover out of nowhere, whose names none of us remember now. I, however, recall this song. A fast paced peppy number coming from a small cigarette shop on the curb. I wish I could remember the lyrics. Or the artist. I hear it sometimes at night, when I’m lying on my bed, my subconscious wide awake, while the rest of me is drifting off to the distant sound of wood crackling in the fireplace. It’s been a long time I realize. Long long time.

I saw you.

For a split of a second. Looking over your shoulder with this look of slight indifference. Like you were almost waiting for everything to fall apart. Right that moment. I caught you at chance. And because I did, it changed something inside me. Forever.

There were two of us calling each other crude names. Three were busy holding up this other friend who had downed too many whiskeys. One, with his shoulders hunched in a threadbare pullover, was walking ahead of us all, phone to his ear, whispering sweet nothings to this girl he never told us about. And I, I was just cold.

Later, you smiled at the photograph we all took just before we became silhouettes in the dark that was closing in.

I saw you.
Just so you know.