You know how, when it's dark and you can't see an inch in front of you, you walk slow. You take your time and plan out each step, mapping out the room before you. You remember every detail. Every shoe left strewn on the carpet, the blanket you never folded, the book you threw across the room when the protagonist died. They're all there, in your mind, once you can't see. All the unimportant things; the mismatched sock, the half-opened desk drawer, the overflowing garbage can. Once you can't see a thing, you see everything.

That's how it is with Megan. She never knows what's in front of her until she closes her eyes or you turn the lights out. She never notices the small things--the unhappy way you smile, the grimace when she tells you her secrets, the color of your eyes, the changing of the weather and the moon, the tears and rips in your jeans, the way you walk on the balls of your feet because it makes you feel younger. If you asked Megan how I walk she would answer, “well, with her feet and legs.” If you asked her the color of my eyes she would mention that the whites are white and the pupils are black. If you asked her when my birthday was she would try to be witty. “It's the day she was born, duh.” She doesn't want anyone to know that she pays attention only to the large occurrences, the major events.

She noticed September 11th, 2001, when strangers died for no reason. She noticed the war in Iraq, the upping gas prices, the problem of global warming. But she did not notice my haircut, the scars on my thighs, or the bruises on my arms. She questioned nothing when I told her that I do not love her any more. She didn't seem to care, not looking away from the newspaper she was reading that was informing her indifferently about the kidnapping and death of a kid seven states away.

“You know,” I said, “this is never going to work.”

She said, “I know.”

When I walked out the door, she flipped to page Main 7 to finish the story titled KIDNAPPED.

--

You know how, when you're lost and there's no one but you, all the knowledge of nature that you've ever known comes rushing back. Follow the river and you'll find civilization. Moss grows toward the north. Follow a straight line until you come to a road. Don't even think about touching it unless you know what it is.

With Megan, she remembers everything from previous relationships when she gets lost in a new one. Don't get too close. Keep your toothbrush at your own house. Boundaries are what keeps you safe. It's okay to go out with your friends on the weekends. Sex does not equal love, but a lot of people believe that it does. Megan wouldn't have been able to tell you which way safety was, but she could tell you not to eat up the words a lover says while in a fight. She could tell you that if you follow the hints you'll find the best present ever for your lover. She's tell you to keep straightforward and life will be much easier. She wouldn't be able to tell you why her last relationship failed or if her current one was working out, but she could teach you the way to sweet talk and the way to get out of having an argument before it even started.

When I told Megan that we needed to talk she said, “baby, you talk. I'll listen.” I didn't need to say a word. She had me at baby. When I told her that I wanted to move in with her, “not yet. I'm just not ready,” was her reply. I didn't ask again.

I said, “I love you.”

She said, “I know.”

And when I kissed her she kissed me back. It was not the type of kiss you give when you're in love.

--

You know how, when you know something is over, you try to hold onto it for as long as possible, no matter how much it stings. You wait for it to completely disintegrate in your grasp before you let it blow away on the wind's back. You hold it to your chest, let it feel that it's breaking your heart with its struggles. You wait for it to give up on escape, and then you let it go.

With Megan, life was the opposite. She gave up on everything. She gave up when you wanted to stay, and she let you leave when you wanted to leave. She would never hold on to anything that did not want to be with her, but she would also never hold on to anything that wanted to be with her always. She never held onto me. Not when I asked her to, not when I told her to let me go.

I said, “hold me.”

She said, “no.”

I said, “let me go.”

She said, “go.”

I stayed, held her to my heart, let her hear the cracks she was forming with her careless, clumsy ways. I let her listen to anything she wanted to. I put my heart in her hands. I wanted her to hold it.

“You dropped me,” my heartbeat said.

“You fell,” she whispered back.

And when she closed her eyes, she saw my haircut, the color of my eyes, and the broken pieces of my heart.