“You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” Death Cab for Cutie
Camilla slipped out of my bed sometime before dawn. She disappeared without waking me, and if it weren’t for the red claw marks on my chest, the soft outline of her body rippled on the sheets and the lingering smell of vanilla smoke, I would have thought I dreamt it all.
In the pale pink reflection of the rising sun, I can’t decide if no goodbye is a good or bad thing.
I keep myself from thinking about it at all by focusing on the memories that give me wings. Ones that I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.
Be gentle with me Jay.
As soon as Camilla said it, the way she said it, I knew. No man had ever gotten that from her. I was going to get the last of her firsts. She would always belong to me in that small way.
Tight. She was so tight. And yelped just as much as she purred. Her nails dug into me wherever she could reach but the tension wasn’t rigid or filled with pain but rather frantic and filled with passion. My name and my nickname dripped from her mouth like bright sparkling diamonds.
The second—no, the third time—we fucked, had sex, made love, I don’t even know… it wasn’t the only thing dripping from her lips.
I’d kissed her so many times, and so wildly hard, that her taste clung to my tongue, my lips, my cheeks even now. And what a perfect taste. Salty of course, but smoky, earthy and utterly Camilla. When I’d tasted myself mixed with her, I’d gotten hard enough for another round. If I could bottle that flavor, I would. It was the essence of pure, unending want.
God, I will lust after her forever. Particularly her tits. Perky, plump globes on that slight little body. I licked every inch of the tattoo that wraps around her torso so that I could remind myself that once I had tasted perfection. I could pretend that the trail stayed there as proof.
I’m getting hard all over again. It’s a risk I’m going to have to take when I think about last night.
For the first time, I don’t hate the prospect of it. The famous Casablanca quote comes to mind.
We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.
I’d always have her. I always had. Only now I can sip on her bourbon, read her articles, see her mom in the grocery store, and all without guilt and fury wrapping up inside me. Just a deep and grateful sadness. I lay in bed, looking over the memories, basking in the scent on my skin until the sun lights up the room.
It might have been an hour, or an entire lifetime that I spent lost to Camilla underneath the cold covers when a small yap from the floor beside me claims my attention and calms my semi-hard dick. I roll to find Crosby’s tail whipping wildly across the floor as he stares expectantly at me. With the leaden weight I suspect will always linger on my shoulders, and as if I have to pull my very skeleton together, I haul myself out of bed.
Pulling on my sweats, I notice a thong is balled on the floor. As dirty as it makes me, I snatch it up and shove it into my top dresser drawer. For a split second, I think about smelling it, smelling her, but I decide to save it for a rainy day. A day when I can’t vividly remember the fragrance on my own.
Crosby and I walk through the house and I notice she’s left her mark in more ways than one. The flannel I was wearing yesterday is gone. The small throw I kept on the couch has disappeared and our homey quilt is in its place. I head toward the back door, Crosby swirling at my ankles, and a Post-it greets me in the kitchen; open me in her swirly, even handwriting on the handle of the fridge.
Cinnamon, clove and that wall of winter wonder smashes into me when I open the door. I don’t even have to look to know that the fragrance comes from the milk masterpiece she’s been slipping in my coffee. The blue metal pitcher on the top shelf has another note, heat on medium until steaming - do NOT boil.
I smile at the love still clinging to this house. To me.
The weight of her absence is a massive chain around my neck, but it’s beautiful, so beautiful, that I want to carry it. Crosby bolts into the snow the second I open the back door, and despite heating the frigid outdoors, I leave it cracked so I can pad down the hallway to the bathroom.
I mean to take a piss but I freeze instead. But only for a heartbeat. One singular heartbeat is all it takes for me to turn and run from the room, yanking on any clothes I can find along the way. I’ve shoved my feet into boots and arms into down sleeves in less than ninety seconds. I’ve grabbed my dog in another thirty and I’m barreling toward my truck, leaving the dangerous red lipstick I love you big and beautiful where she drew it on the bathroom mirror.
We make it to the tiny, one landing strip airport just in time. I know half of the security guys, most having played hockey with me since I was seven, and only one tries to stop me, halfheartedly, because I have a dog in the airport. They get a little more forceful when I try to bulldoze through security.
“AJ, you really can’t go in there without a ticket.” The voice connected to the arm holding me back, holding me from Camilla, is trying to reason with me.
The blind need driving me toward her isn’t letting me think straight. “Just give me one. To anywhere.”
“You have to go back to the counter for that. Go see Connie.”
But I catch a glimpse of Camilla on the other side of the glass wall separating the flimsy excuse of a terminal from the even more pathetic excuse of a gate. She’s smiling that weak, broken smile of hers, the one that doesn’t reach her eyes but reaches straight into my heart and squeezes, as she nears the door to the tarmac.
“Camilla!” My voice booms over top of every single person in the room and when she turns, I know it reaches her.
Thank you, Dad.
Automatically she pulls her ticket back in and starts walking toward me. Her smile is more genuine even though her eyes fill to the brim with sorrow. Casablanca can’t help me anymore. Not now, not looking at her here, thinking about losing her all over again. I don’t want Paris, I don’t want a perfect Christmas, I want her. Forever. I don’t know how to soldier on without her.
The woman walking gracefully toward me is in leather leggings, that lush wool coat, and those sinful red bottom stilettos. She’s my Camilla and yet…
“Jay, what are you doing?” She’s still on the other side of the partition glass but I can catch the pitiful warmth lacing her voice.
“Don’t,” I manage. “Don’t go.” Crosby yaps his agreement.
A single tear breaks free of the beautiful glitter of her eyes but she doesn’t answer me. She just closes her eyes, lifts her little hand to her lips, kisses it ardently then presses it to the glass. I can’t help but shove my big cracked hand out to mirror hers. Her eyes open and flash to where we’d be touching if there wasn’t a wall in between us. The painstaking perfection of the metaphor drags another beautiful twinkling tear down her cheek. And without another word, without even another gut-wrenching gesture, she turns, hands her ticket to the attendant and walks out of my life.
The telltale squeak and whir of the barn door starts exactly one breath before Crosby’s barking. I can only count my life in breaths now. My heartbeat stopped three days ago. I haven’t been able to get it started again.
Or wash her lipstick off my bathroom mirror.
I’m staring at the wood in front of me so hard, so desperate for it to talk to me the way it used to, that I don’t look up. Trigg and my mom are the only two that have bothered to deal with me anyway. Monosyllables aren’t for everyone.
“You’re a fool.”
I don’t need to look up to picture Trigg’s hands on her hips.
“AJ, go get her.”
I shoot her a look from where I’m hunched on my workbench that should have her shaking in her boots.
“Don’t you dare start with me,” she says roughly. “You guys are only apart because neither of you ever thought to speak your minds before. Don’t make the same stupid mistake twice.”
“I did speak my mind, Trigg.” My voice is venomous.
“Fight, then.” She comes closer, crouching down into my line of sight. Crosby sits next to her, somehow matching her pleading face.
“For what, Trigg? Tell me, because I don’t fucking know,” I shout at her just before I bury my head in my hands.
“For Cam. For a future with her.” She places her hands on my knees.
“In Seattle,” I say into my palms.
“Or here. Or somewhere else entirely.”
All the little pieces of Camilla, all the snippets of our conversations come floating down like the snowflakes falling outside. They swirl around, dancing on the unseen wind Trigg is trying to blow into my sails. But I deflate when I remember why we aren’t together in the first place.
“She belongs there. I belong here.” I rub my face then shove my hands through my hair only to clasp them behind my neck. “She made my place quite clear.”
“Screw what she said.” Trigg’s getting riled up.
“She didn’t say anything. I just know.” I sigh. “I always know with her. Her body speaks a language I know all too well.”
“You didn’t even discuss this?” She throws her hands up as she shrieks.
I sigh. I can’t follow her down that rocky road of anger. I’ve been there twice in so few days, splitting wood then smashing things. But then I took one, singular, deep breath and came to the same conclusion. My voice is low, chafing on my lips the way this whole Christmas does on my soul, as I say, “No, because I decided I feel the same way.”