the low click of the ticking clock

On Tuesday I woke up and it was spring. Even though I knew the good weather wouldn't last past the week and that it had only been a day since Ethan and I broke up, the physical sensation and memory of 50-something degree sunshine on my skin made me feel as if I was already in a different chapter of my life. I felt bewildered by the passage of time. On Monday night when I was walking down Mercer to Canal St. to meet Kat for dinner, I passed by the CB2 where Ethan and I had picked up my acrylic console for the current apartment. Two years ago at a very different time of ourselves and our relationship we had argued in a Zipcar on a hot June day after picking up that console. I felt a little melancholy. Last Friday after we had decided to break up I couldn't fall asleep, crying until 2 or 3 in the morning. "Three years," the phrase tolled in my head. I couldn't believe I was throwing this away, three years of growth together then apart. "For people who weren't meant to be together forever, we did pretty good," he said. On Wednesday the dissociative afternoon light was back. I stared at the shadows the harsh sunshine cast across my living room and the dining table where I worked. I missed Catherine, how she loved opening the windows of our apartment in the spring to let in the fresh air. I felt slow, unable to focus on my work. The world felt alien and open to me. Juhi texted me about the breakup, and I imagined what my life would be like in SF with her and Catherine, weekend trips to LA and foggy evening walks in the Richmond and coffee and scones from Arizmendi's in the morning.