Things Remembered by Caden Ashford

I remember.

I remember fighting.

I remember bickering.

I remember being disappointed time and again.

I remember you saying you'd call, but you never did.

I remember how we would argue about who should do the dishes, because both of us hate it, but they had to get done somehow.

I remember how long you would take to get ready to go anywhere, so we'd end up being late, no matter what we were doing or where we were going.

I remember when you got a new boss, and how she was always making irrational demands of you, having you stay to work late, giving you extra projects, and generally keeping us apart.

I remember I didn't think much of it at the time.

I remember the time I bought you tickets to the opera for your birthday. I don't even like the opera, but it was one of your great loves, so I was willing to brave even that - for you. I got all dressed up, I made us dinner, I put candles on the table, and I sat at the table and waited. Waited for you to get home from work, waited for you to call and say you were going to be late, waited?until dinner had gone cold, my clothes were wrinkled, I'd consumed most of the bottle of wine I'd intended for us to have with dinner, and you still hadn't called. It was late, and there was no way we were making it to the opera on time. And then it was later, and there was no way we'd make it at all. When you finally came home, you apologized profusely, saying something about your new boss; you kissed me quickly and hurried off to the bathroom to wash away the day's work.

I remember I thought I smelled another woman's perfume on you that night.

I remember suspicion.

I remember the time you were sick and I didn't want to leave you home alone. I nearly called in sick myself, but you made me go to work anyway, and when I came home, you were right where I left you, curled up under a blanket on the couch. I sat down beside you, and as I was kissing your forehead, I thought I smelled something strange - perfume, maybe.

I remember thinking I'd smelled that perfume before.

I remember the time we were lying in bed together one Saturday morning and I asked if we could do something together, just the two of us, and you said it would have to wait because you had to go in to work on that big project your boss had given you at the last minute.

I remember you coming home early that afternoon and taking me to a matinee showing of a movie I'd wanted to see for a while, and how I missed half the movie because I was busy worrying about the fact that you reeked of that strange perfume.

I remember you always blaming your boss for being away from me, explaining away all the disappointments with "It was work, honey, I had to."

I remember thinking you were becoming a workaholic.

I remember not liking that idea one bit.

I remember the time I decided to surprise you at work, to distract you from your job and your boss. I got together some things for a picnic and I waltzed into your building and breezed into your office, only to find another woman leaning over your shoulder, her cleavage practically in your face, one hand on your shoulder. The noise of the door opening surprised you so much you nearly jumped out of your seat, but that woman didn't seem fazed.

I remember when you looked at me, all I saw was guilt. You stood up and awkwardly introduced me to that woman who'd been leaning over you, saying she was your boss's assistant.

I remember she didn't look guilty in the slightest, and in fact looked a lot like the cat who ate the canary.

I remember when I got close enough to shake her hand, I was assaulted by the perfume that was, by that point, all too familiar.

I remember after that woman left - I refuse to so much as write her name - we went and had our picnic, and the whole time your words came out hesitant and stilted.

I remember when I went to kiss you goodbye, you turned your head and said you thought you were getting sick.

I remember that your voice trembled when you said it, telling me that wasn't the real reason you'd turned away.

I remember I wasn't brave enough to ask what was.

I remember the ultimate disappointment.

I remember the time I went out with my friends for our usual Sunday brunch, and how when I came home, I saw a strange coat hanging in the hall.

I remember I smelled her perfume.

I remember walking into the living room, only to see her lean over and kiss you.

I remember the sound of finality, the sound of the front door slamming closed behind me as I walked out. Out of our apartment, out of our relationship, out of your life.

I remember betrayal.

I remember.