The ridges in your fingers are your own. No one else has fingers quite like yours. They would tell us in the fourth grade science class about the types of fingerprints, whorls and loops and arches, but I never found someone with a whorl. Not until I met you, until I held your fingers with my own. You were, in my life, completely unique. You overtook me with a sort of splendor. I never met another with your kind of fingerprints.
We would race through the Macy’s, you dragging my hand along as I stumbled with laughter, hiding behind expensive fur coats that would make my arms itch and your fingers twitch. It was as if you wanted to bring the fox back to life, the poor thing worth seven hundred dollars in its ruins. I would hold you as you cried for it, and you would hold me as security threw us out.
The first time you took me to your apartment, you cooked a three-course meal. I was surprised to find chicken on the menu, and you shrugged. The candles around the living room were lit, and we ate like kings in front of your television, watching Tim Allen in The Santa Clause. You made the mistake of letting me pick, and when you insisted that it was November and unconstitutional, I kissed you to shut up.
We would take turns making dinner. I tended to stick to the classic mac n cheese, and not once did you complain. You would douse yours in pepper and insist that it was the best damn Kraft you ever had.
The coffee shop you lived above was your second home. Their original art was cycled through, either bought or stored. There was one day when I saw a collection of Polaroids that looked like they had been destroyed. They didn’t have a price tag. As you walked back from the counter, my latte in hand, I called you to look at them. You smiled as you wrapped your arms around me and handed off the coffee. We were suspended in time, staring at the technological mishap called “Ruined Polaroid #14.” I told you it was us.
You told me you were dying and I said it would be okay, that we would work through it. The years we spent together I avoided any conflict. I didn’t want you to hate me; I didn’t want to lose you before I had to. You couldn’t resist your impulses: running the 5K a few summers ago, skydiving last spring. You took me with you, and I was honored.
We would spend many of those nights staring at the stars. I was worried you would overthink the situation, that you would contemplate death too much. I couldn’t read your face in the dark, and you wouldn’t turn your head when I tried to catch your eye. When I fell asleep I always woke up in bed with the covers on and my socks off. I couldn’t stand to sleep in socks.
You told me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. I told you that if you were lucky you wouldn’t have to.
You died in my arms two weeks later.