Blink

I blink.

I blink, and I am there, with you, at the beginning. Our first date, I think. Maybe the second. You look young. Healthy. It’s 20 years earlier. We are kids, poor in life but rich in hope.

You're wearing the blue dress I loved, and your hair is up. Your nails are red. You stopped painting your nails at some point. I'm not sure when, but I think I know why.

I feel overwhelmed to be in this moment again, not sure why or how. I just stare at you, eyes wide, jaw slack.

I smile, and you smile. Feeling awkward, you kiss me. "What?" you say, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm just happy," I say. "I can't believe I’m here."

You smile and kiss me again. This time you mean it. My hand touches your cheek, and you lean into it. You're real. This is real.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm some time else. We're fighting. I'm in the middle of yelling something. Your face is red. Your nails are blue.

It's three years later. A month before the wedding. It was a stressful time. We fought a lot. You threatened to call it off twice. You gave me my ring back a week before the ceremony. Cold feet. That night I went to your apartment, and we fought and then laughed and made up and drank a bottle of wine and decided to elope.

We were married at the court house the next day. Your parents were mad, but we told them we would still go through with the bigger ceremony. It was paid for already, so why not?

But that's not now. That's weeks away. Now I am in your apartment, and you are yelling at me. You call me selfish. You say I'm an asshole. But this me, the me I am now, is not angry. You are here. I don't want to fight.

"You're right," I say. "I am an asshole. I'm sorry."

You look at me oddly, waiting for the "but ..." Waiting for me to regroup and come back harder. I never apologize, and it throws you. You're like a prize fighter whose opponent just went down without a punch. It's a win but a confusing victory.

You glare at me and turn around, without a word. You're still mad, but I'm not. I reach out and squeeze your shoulder. You're warm and alive and real. I don’t want to let go. “Please,” I say. "I need to ..."

And I blink.

I blink, and it's later. Our honeymoon. We're in the ocean, the waves lapping at our legs.

You're in your white bikini, your hair sun-streaked, your skin tan. The moonlight is bouncing on your eyes. Your hand holds mine, and you stare at me with that look you give when I slip away, far away. That look that says to come back home.

"Sorry," I say.

"As long as you're back now," you say, pulling me into your arms.

We kiss, and I taste the salt on your lips. I smell the ocean on your skin. Your body is soft and warm, and I pull you tight, feeling you breathe against me.

I know how this night ends. We make love on a towel on the beach and fall asleep with sand in our hair. This was my favorite night. On my desk at work is a photo of you in this bikini, taken on this beach, on this night.

When it gets bad, when you struggle, and I work late nights to pay the mounting bills, feeling guilty that I have to choose between money or you, I will look at that photo and come back to this moment.

But now I'm here. And I kiss you and squeeze my eyes tight and fight back the tide of emotions. I don't want to leave.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s Christmas. I have Lucy in my hands, and you squeal when you see the puppy. You smile and hug me and tell me you love me.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s New Year’s. We are in Times Square. My company sent me here to help open the new branch, and we lived in a nice apartment for six months, enjoying the big city life. Your hand is in a mitten, and you grip me tight as we stare up at the dropping ball.

“I love you,” I say, but you cannot hear me, because the crowd is so loud. 5. 4. 3. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You're going to miss it," you say.

“Please don’t let me go,” I say to you, to me, to anyone.

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in your bakery. You opened it the week before. I have a dozen roses in my hand, and you are beaming.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s dark. We’re in bed. You are on top of me, and I am inside of you. You ride me, your nails in my chest. You lean down, your hair brushing my face. You moan, and your mouth opens.

I grab your arms and roll over, on top of you now. I stroke your hair and look into your eyes. “What’s wrong?” you say. “Why did you stop? I was close.”

“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want it to end.”

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re on the couch. You have a cold, your head on my chest. I hand you a box of tissues.

"What's happening?" I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I am at the bar with my friend Bob who is talking about his wife and how annoying she is and how he wishes he could find someone like you.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re eating dinner.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re laughing. You take a sip of wine and tell me to stop.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s snowing outside, and we’re making soup.

And I blink.

And it's dark. I hear you sleeping beside me, on your side, facing the wall. I stare up at the ceiling with the small crack in it as a car alarm goes off in the distance.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Your hand clenches mine tightly. I had forgotten how strong you were.

You're hoping for a girl. I'm hoping for a boy. The doctor is explaining the risks associated with your pregnancy.

He starts to give us odds and you squeeze harder. I don't want to see what comes next.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re driving, and our song comes on the radio, and you sigh and dab a tissue to your cheek and look out the window. Your nails are green.

We lost the baby a year ago. I remember thinking I wasn't sure if we would make it, and when we did, I was relieved. But that happiness did not last long.

“I want this to stop,” I say. “I know what’s coming up, and I don’t want to live it again.”

You look at me, puzzled. Not really angry, just sad.

And I blink.

I blink, and it's three years ago. You are sick. Frail, already. I skipped past the tests and the treatment and the remission and the hope that slowly turned to the worst fucking part of it all.

We're at our home. We're at the dining room table we bought at the thrift store, the one with the bum leg that I tried to fix but just made worse.

"It will be OK," you say, catching my eyes. "This will work." But it won't.

I smile, emotions overwhelming me. I'm helpless. Useless. We're broke. You closed your bakery the year before. We've already lost all of our savings. My insurance will not cover what is coming, and we will not be able to afford it.

I know how this will end. I know the path we're on, and I can't be strong. Not now. Not this moment.

I was never a great husband. I was a good husband. I tried to be great. But it was beyond my reach. I worked too much. I did not say I love you enough. I was selfish. I took you for granted. I missed too many moments thinking there would be more.

I look in your eyes, and I think of how much you will need me and how little I will be able to do to stop your pain, and I cry. I weep. I wail. I cannot stop. I've never cried like this in front of you before.

"Don't," you say, weakly, your hand cold on my back. "Please ..."

You were always stronger than me. I bury my head in my hands as you wrap your arms around me. I sob, my breath coming in shallow bursts. You pull me tight, and I sink into your arms. I close my eyes tight. Please ...

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in bed, sleeping. I dab a cool cloth on your head. Your eyes open, gingerly. They are glassy because of the drugs, but you manage a smile. “Hi,” you say.

I don't want to see this again.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish …”

And I blink.

I blink, and it's two weeks ago. You're gone. I'm alone, sitting in a tiny, cold apartment.

You fought hard. No surprise. You always did. The doctors gave you two months, but you turned it into a year. Every day was difficult, but I hope they were all worth it.

I am at the table. The table with the bad leg. There's a glass of warm whiskey in front of me, brushing against my finger tips, and an uneaten can of tuna.

Lucy is gone, too. She has been for several years. We did not get another dog because it was all too much.

I'm holding a photo of you, framed. Our wedding photo. I'm in a dark place. My head throbs. My eyes are blurry. Not from tears. I haven't been crying.

A stack of condolence cards are to my left. A stack of bills are to my right. Ahead of me is a lonely life full of pain and longing. I have not lived it yet, but it's just as clear to me as the past.

I think about what I have to look forward to and what I lost, and I feel the emptiness of despair. A void is slowly closing over me that numbs my soul and senses. I would cry, if I could, but I am too lost for tears.

"I hate this," I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm in a diner. I'm drinking a cup of coffee.

I recognize this place. It was the 24-hour grease pit near campus, the one I went to almost every night, to study, because my roommate liked to have loud sex with his girlfriend.

My biology text book is open. A half-eaten donut sits on a small saucer beside me. I am a senior in college.

This was where I met you for the first time. This is the night. Five minutes from now you will come in the door with a few friends. You will sit down behind me as I read this book and eat this donut. You will say hi and ask me for some sugar and notice my biology book and ask which class I am taking. I will tell you, and you will ask me if it is hard, because you are looking to take it next semester, and I will say it is, and you will introduce yourself, and pretty soon you have left your friends and are sitting with me, and we're talking about horror films and global warming.

I ask you out. You accept. We date. We fall in love. We marry. We get a dog. You get sick. You leave me. It takes 20 years, but it feels like a blink of the eye.

I know what lies ahead. I know how much I love you but how much pain comes with it. It all starts in less than a minute.

And I blink.

And I'm still here. Waiting for the door to open. My foot twitches as I close my book, ready to get up and leave.

I can walk out the door. I've been given a chance to do it all over again. Take another path. Try another life.

I want to. I need to. I don't think I can do this again.

And I blink.

And the door opens. And you walk in.

You're 22. Your nails are painted yellow. Your hair is in a ponytail.

The woman I loved. The woman I love. You glance at me and smile. I smile back. My heart jumps into my throat, strangling me. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. You sit down behind me.

I can smell your perfume. You're inches away.

I know the future. I know what lies ahead. I could leave right now.

You say hi, and that's all it takes. I do not move. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. And I do not blink.