The Fall

by MEREDITH CHAMBERLAIN

I always meet you in the fall. Maybe you don't remember. Maybe I don't remind you until the winter. But I always meet you when the color fades, when the cardigans begin.

I meet you at a bookstore, at a party. A fall party with special gin drinks. I meet lots of people at this party but you are the one who stays with me. You are tall and your hair covers your eyes and I think of you when I'm out with my friends. My friends say you'll meet someone soon, and I say, yes, I will, with a smile, and I think of you and your moppy hair, and my hands brushing it off your face, to see your eyes.

I think of you when I'm home for the holidays, with my family. My family says you'll meet someone soon and I say yes, you're right, and I think of you, who I met, and I smile.

I think of you, I keep you around, in my head, for months. And then I tell you. Then I tell you I've been thinking of you.

I meet you at the library. I meet you with my eyes. You walk in, I can count on you walking in, most days, in your red jacket. In that red hooded rain jacket, that no one else has. I pretend to read my books, pretend to write my papers, try to think of a way to talk to you. A reason to walk over to your table. There is no reason. I don't walk over to your table. I don't walk over to your table for a very long time.

It gets cold and we meet at a party, through a friend. The friend introduces us and we say hi and our eyes say we've already met.

I meet you at my apartment. You are there with your friends, my roommates, and you seem too pretty as I walk up the stairs, watch you smoking, walk inside. You seem too pretty so I keep walking to my bedroom, shut the door, drowned out your voice.

Weeks pass and you seem too pretty, still, but you seem interesting, too. And you seem to make me laugh. And then you seem to make me want to kiss you, and I do that. I do that for a while, until the cardigans end, the color comes back.

I always lose you in the spring. I think you know this. I think you're the one who left me. Maybe it doesn't end until the summer but I always lose you in the spring.

I lose you in Brooklyn. You come to visit me there. I expect some drinking, some dancing, some long walks. You expect none of this. You walk in, kiss me, walk to my room, shut the door behind you. You don't sit down. You stand and you tell me that this isn't working, anymore, for you. You tell me that you love me but that you can't do this anymore.

You've never told me you love me, before.

I lose you over the phone. We're talking but in circles. We both know what's happening, we both know the words, but you say them first. You say maybe we should spend some time apart. I start crying. I try to hide it and then I don't. You come over. You come over and you tell me how much you care, you think about forever, you think you love me and you think you could be with me, forever, sometimes.

You've never told me you love me, you think you love me, before.

I lose you in the subway. This trip, it's been long. Two flights, a train, and now this. Before this there was a wedding. I didn't know them, the wedding people. But they looked at me, standing next to you, and they said, I like you two, together. I looked at you then and I look at you now and I wonder if that's true. I kiss you, stand up, get off the train, wondering. You tell me you love me and I wonder.

You'll never tell me you love me, I'll never wonder if you do, again.

I always meet you in the fall. You're always gone by spring. Sometimes you don't know this until the winter. Sometimes you tell me you love me when it's over.

Meredith Chamberlain is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in New York. She tumbls here. She last wrote in these pages about safety versus comfort.

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