“Come drink with me to days gone by.” A short phrase she texted; not expecting a reply. She wasn’t even sure why she decided to reach out again; the moment she fumbled send, she regretted it. What would he think, after all this time, about such a message? Did she sound desperate, lonely, and afraid?
She remembered the laughter, the faces of friends around the table, the glasses of beer, and the too loud band. She could still feel the touch of his hand on her arm; the warmth of his breath as he brushed stray strands of hair off her face. The colo(u)r of his eyes as he looked deeply into hers. That night was the perfect moment; the coming together of the planets and universes. “Fate and fairies brought us together,” she had thought that on that magical first night. Now, as she looked out the window, there were no fairy lights in the garden, no bright stars, or glowing planets in the sky; only a darkness that stretched beyond her backyard.
She whispered to the silence of her room, “To every beginning, is an ending.” Unfortunately, she remembered that night too well; raised voices, accusations, slamming of doors. The crash of the door as it closed forever boomed in her head for days; she couldn’t shake the feeling of regret, of guilt, of mistakes. She wished she could take it all back; pretend it had never happened. To have things as whimsical and magical as before with the long walks, laughter mixed with moments of quiet. A lover, a friend, a confidant; someone she had entrusted with her deepest secrets, longings, and fears. She couldn’t go past the tavern, follow the same trails in the local woods, spend time with the same friends. With time, she realized the degree of emptiness, loneliness and sorrow endings bring.
Something had stirred inside her that made her recall that familiar number. How to express her feelings of loss; how to say she was so very sorry. “Drink with me to days gone by,” from Les Miserables slipped into her mind, and before she thought the whole thing through, she had done it. Sent the text; opened wounds barely healed, scars that marked her heart and soul. She had put down the phone, paced for a while, then curled up in bed; wrapping quilt and arms around herself tightly.
“There’ll be no reply,” she said aloud to break the quiet. Softly at first, then louder, more insistent, her phone came to life. She held her breath as she scrambled over to the dresser. In the dim light, her hands shaking, her heart thumping and ready to break, she read, “Come drink with me to days gone by. Choose the place, pick the time.”
carryon tuesday prompt: drink with me to days gone by; published on monday