The Lover

I like it this way, Elena told herself as she observed the tire tracks left behind on her dirt-paved driveway. They looked permanent there this time, as if nothing could wash them away. Even if a storm hit, she would still notice the tire tracks. They were perfectly etched in her memory. The tracks meant he was there, and then he wasn't. Elena knew he wasn't going to stay. She knew it from the way he had acted like a guest the entire weekend, picking up after himself, re-packing the simple things like his toothpaste and electric razor.



There were "I love you's" and "I missed you's", but she knew better. She wasn't nineteen anymore, working at Delancy's. It worked then. It worked again at twenty-five, then at thirty. But at thirty-six, his charms just seemed mechanical. But nevertheless, she let him in. It had been raining and he looked pathetic, standing there in a soaking wet suit and a bouquet of red roses. Elena didn't even like roses.



She didn't ask where he had gone or where he had been. He didn't try to give any explanations. She just handed him a towel and stood by the doorway as he took off his slacks and unbuttoned his dress shirt. It was one of the few things she still loved about him, watching him undress. He always looked so vulnerable and unsure of his body, which she also loved. So when he walked over to her and pressed her up against the wall, she allowed herself to feel him, just one more time.



That was Friday night.



On Saturday, she made them coffee and they sat on the porch. A couple on the beach played with their young daughter. "Daddy! Daddy! Throw the ball my way!" she shouted enthusiastically. Her curls bounced with every jump.

"That could be us," he said.



That will never be us, she had thought to herself.



That night, they made love twice.



"Do you still love me?" he asked her.



"Of course I do," she replied.



The next morning, he was gone.



I like it this way, Elena told herself, sipping her coffee. At nineteen, she thought he was the love of her life. And she did love him, at nineteen. She loved him at twenty-five and even thirty. But at thirty-six, she no longer did.