Ghost of (you)
I had a bite of a macaron and I remembered you. Subtle, sweet, avoidant. The sugar isn't present enough in those pastries and every bite leaves me dissatisfied. Too much air between the layers.
I was mincing a clove of garlic and remembered your hand guiding me back and forth on the cutting board. Your pale spindly hands wrapped around mine. I could hear your shrill voice coaxing me to be careful. Coaching me how to cut.
In the centre of the city, I walked past a man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He puffed, and suddenly I could smell our summer together. That year on the lake by the park. Wrapped in a towel underneath the bushes. We chain smoked every night. I coughed up all my money.
At a coffee shop near my house, I heard someone order that drink I used to make for you. Every day after work I'd run it to you like an olympic baton and I'd hope that you'd appreciate me for it. Hoped that you'd see how much I cared.
And then last week I was in Ikea and I saw that painting you had on your bedroom wall. It was in a showroom on the top floor. Do you remember playing house with me when my parents were away? We baked cookies and made pasta. Adult things, we joked. Serious things.
So much time has passed, many lives I've lived, yet I still walk around with your ghost. You've haunted my apartment, you've ruined my taste buds. I can't make Italian without using the method you taught me and I can't enjoy French baking without thinking of your superficiality.
The air between your words, your cutting lectures. The smoke we blew at each other in those final moments. Everything on display.
When will you leave me be?
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