As he opened the door to welcome me inside, I noticed his shoes were on.
White sneakers, well-kept and clean, barely a noticeable scuff. He liked to keep them that way, meticulous enough to take the time to buff a scratch, to wet a washcloth when dirt dried on the toe. He wasn’t compulsive, but rather organized and he took care of his things.
That’s what drew me to him when we first started dating – I could rely on him, he was intentional. He stayed up with me on restless nights rubbing my back, and re-folded my laundry in such a way that prevented wrinkles. He made sure to offer me bites of his food even when I said I wasn’t hungry. He texted me after each of my ballet classes to hear about the progress of my pirouette. We met when my anxiety and depression were beginning to bear teeth, so he took me on walks to help ground me.
We hugged at the door frame to his studio, soft but restrained. Our voices croaked as we said hello under our breaths, stumbling to find an inflection that could convey sternness, longing, and apology.
Following him down the hall, we passed the spot where I would normally slip off my sneakers next to his shoe rack lined with other low tops, chelsea boots, and dress shoes. I didn’t take them off this time, following his lead. I couldn’t help but stare at the empty space, along with his pair of “elevated” rain boots that I always hated but would never tell. They’re really ugly.
Our shoes echoed and creaked on the hardwood floor as we continued. The sound reminded me of the nights when we rustled to leave the apartment or returned home after dinner, giggling with the taste of sake lingering on our lips. Our pace was slower this time. My jaw clenched and my body felt fuzzy.
Moving to the couch, we sat at opposite ends. The same couch where we would nestle our bare feet for conversation and movies and work and kisses and sharp inhales and legs intertwined, and sometimes unkempt hair and dinners on laps and croissant crumbs and heavy eyes and crisp spring mornings and reading aloud.
The same couch where he showed me a video I didn’t find funny. Where I cringed at the sound of him swallowing his food, and now, where I held a pillow on my lap, sneakers on carpet.
“So let’s talk,” I initiated.
“Would you rather we talk here? We could also take a walk or sit in a park. Whichever you’d like, I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer,” he delayed.
His shoes now made sense. My comfort was his priority, this time a cushion for the coming blow. His kindness and devotion now came with rehearsed preparations and reserved, formulaic language. A part of me appreciated his calculus. Another part of me was angry, this tease of affection, a final display of what I was about to lose.
We broke up, as I anticipated, still on opposite ends and his forearms pressed above his knees. We talked in circles, offering the other what closure and assurance we needed to hear as many times as we needed to hear it. The type of breakup, I guess, I would hope for.
Timing and priorities to blame, he said. What a shame, what a lost opportunity, I told him. He agreed. His stubbornness felt familiar, unwavering and firm. There was no point in negotiation. Still, with his resolve so firmly set, his decision was respectable. All I could do was swallow the pill.
I had always worried our differences would break us apart. Eventually we’d meet at a fork, one where I was either too bored or his focused ambitions too rigid. A landmark where we’d have to determine if there was something foundational enough to keep us tethered. He beat me to it.
We had kept our shoes on throughout this relationship. It was like socks on during sex, and my underwear tangled to the side of my pelvis; intimacy never fully realized, as if something thin always lied between our two skins. In a sense, we knew this wasn’t sustainable. Minute
incongruences chipped away at the cracks we overlooked and left ungrouted. But cracks didn’t matter when things were at their sweetest, he was just so tender. He made me feeI supported and smart. I made him feel curious and brave.
In that moment, despite our relationship ending, the intimacy that threaded us together for as long as it did rose in my chest. I wanted to feel close to him, I did feel close, and I gripped what was left.
I coyly asked, “Could we cuddle?”
His response came quickly, “Yes, please, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to.”
We held each other. We fell into the same molds our bodies had become accustomed to. My head nestled under his chin, eyes peering up at him as we spoke. His arm wrapped around my shoulder, the other hand pulling my leg in. I cried as he ran his fingers through my hair.
Our shoes were heavy and rigid. They stunted our ability to get closer. My leg couldn’t be pulled any higher without the soles touching the couch. I couldn’t nestle further without my sneakers scraping his shins. His shoes were planted on the edge of the coffee table in front of us. I asked if I could kiss him. He said it would be too confusing.
I thought of the tiny beautiful moments we shared, once solid and now fleeting. I’ll miss brushing my teeth with him, staring at each other through the mirror, smiling and breaking eye contact out of giddy shyness. I would then turn to him, our bare chests touching, listening to his heart beat with the muffled sound of bristles on my teeth.
Neither of us asked to be friends, we both knew we couldn’t be anything else than what we were – a stunning moment in time, unexpected, precious, and sincere. Eventually the emotions settled, the conversation paused. It was time for me to leave.
With shoes still on, it was easier for me to go and catch the bus home.
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