Memory and Time

I don't remember when I stopped loving him, but I do remember when I started. I don't remember why I couldn't find the time to stay in touch, but I remember when I waited breathlessly for his phone calls. I don't remember what my last words to him were, but I do remember what it felt like to hear his voice jump and reach over those miles upon miles of telephone lines. I don't recall why I wanted out, or what finally prompted that decision, or how much I cried about that specifically, but I remember how much he hurt. I do remember that. Remember his broken-hearted look six months later and again, still broken-hearted, three years later. I remember running into him at the bar, surprised that he'd come into town without telling me; stumbled upon him, me in a cowboy hat and rhinestone necklace and big, dark sunglasses, laugh caught halfway down my throat as I came into the room and him, the usual black raincoat and conservative clothes, hair cropped close, face stricken as if he'd seen a ghost. I do remember that.