So it was time to go. The last few minutes had expanded in my mind where every move, every look, and every word counted as many, dragging on like a movie in super slow motion. The head bent to light up the last cigarette, the smoke-filled room, the unsaid words, the ordinary words, the pauses and silences filled with millions of important and urgent sentences, paragraphs, and books.
I was silent, writing my book. He was ready to go, and the hand that moved from the ashtray to the mouth and back was all that I could see, savoring the drag, savoring the moment, preparing for a farewell that was subdued and silent much like the greeting had been. The cigarette ran out and the hand put it out on the ashtray, staying there, pushing and shoving the dying embers around, as if knowing that once that cigarette was gone and cold, so was the moment, the chance.
I said goodbye and no more. This chapter was written on my heart, as all the others before it, all with a sad ending, never with leisure, never complete, but a sad and tired game of silences and goodbyes. Defeated, tired, and empty, I headed back for the door behind which waited nothing but memories of something that wasn’t.
