i opened my take-out box from three days ago. half the fries had been eaten, the sandwich untouched, the pickel shriveled. she had eaten them, like i knew she would. this time it didn't anger me, but rather, the emotion got caught somewhere between my upset stomach and my parched lips. the latter of the two trembled and moistened as my nose ran. i tasted salt and closed the box.
the girl who ate my leftovers had been my lover. most of them time we spent together passed at my apartment in the pseudo-city that neighbored suburban new england. we often would lay in bed staring out the sky-light at night, or when it rained. we'd make bets on which raindrop would be the quickest to to hit the bottom of the window.
we were in love but we never said it. she always reminded me to never fall in love with her. i always reminded her that it was too late. it's twisted because she loved me and didn't want me to get hurt by falling for her. she had a boyfriend, you see, and the details of our relationship had to stay a secret. and there was always the possibility that one day, maybe soon, we would have to end. to her boyfriend and everyone else, we were just mere acquaintances. in fact, no one knew us, but us.
you may already hate us for being in this situation, but give me a chance to explain. Casandra, my lover, did not allow boundaries to contain her compassion, understanding and love for human beings. though she was committed, in a non-traditional sense, to one man, she would tell me all time, "what a shame it is to not fall in love at every possible moment." Casandra's life mate was only partially whole. that is to say, he was very broken. though she could see it hurt me, she could not help but gush about her mate when we were together. he was as wonderful to her as he could be, but it took a lot out of her to care for him. but she would never give up on him.
we met due to our mutual, albeit abnormal, interest in taxidermy. at a convention in march, we had both been browsing examination tools at a vendor's booth. the attraction, both physical and mental, was instant. i'm pretty sure her boyfriend hated me from the beginning, because he knew deep down that i yearned for her. however, he was always amicable upon encounter, but only for her sake.
only a few days after the convention, i found myself incredibly hungry for this young woman. after finding out she was in a relationship, my desires faltered, and i grew weak in my hunt. but i never lost contact with her, and after months i knew her enough to realize that our love could blossom no matter the circumstances.
the fridge door was still open, illuminating my kitchen. i was no longer hungry, but i didn't dare close the fridge since it was my only source of light. at four in the morning, almost anything will make sense if you think hard enough about it.
the last time i saw her, she was in the middle of a sea of linen, her cheeks rosy from orgasm. she never looked more beautiful. dark brows, dark hair, dark lips. dark, dark, dark. but with skin that matched my linen bed coverings. bare, unblemished skin. very unlike my own, which is covered in scars and different colored inks. i remember she looked at me, pleadingly, whispered, "even if i die you can't let Paul know how much you care for me. He dislikes you already, because he fears that you fancy me. if he really saw, in your eyes, the truth.... he'd sock you right in the jaw. i know he would."
i had brushed off her concern because it seemed irrelevant. when would that situation ever arise? "you're not going to die," i said. "because i love you" hung unspoken between us.
of course, she took her own life shortly after our conversation. her funeral is in a few days time. i still haven't decided if i will attend.
---
but i did. i felt out of place, barely knowing anyone there. i felt as if every look sent my way was dirty. i wanted someone, anyone, to know how much i cared for this young woman. i wanted to speak, but could not find my voice. i wanted to take to the podium but could not overcome my stage-fright. when Paul saw me, he immediately came my way.
"it's pathetic and cruel, not to mention offensive to Cassie's memory, that you are here. you barely knew her, or cared about her, yet now she is dead and you show up?"
i tried not to look him in the eye as i thought up a response. "listen," i started. "i did know her, and she was wonderful and it's awful that any of us have to be here..."
"look at me when i'm talking to you, motherfucker!" he exploded. i looked into his eyes and saw insanity. his eyes were bulging and i tasted blood as i bit my tongue. but he knew without me having to say anything.
and that douchebag socked me in the jaw just like she said he would.
---
i still haven't throw away the take-out box with the half sandwich and half-eaten fries. by now i am sure it's mold-covered; hard as a rock. i wrote a poem on the box that outlines Casandra's message of universal, limitless love. i hope that one day, at least one person gets the chance to read and understand it. i hope one day that more people will love the way she did.
