Small Things

Why is it always the small things that you remember during those odd little moments in conversation or times of happenstance, when everything else has blurred around the edges and lost its intensity. I’ve forgotten the way he smelled, the exact shade of his hair, those little phrases he always loved and thought made him sound so smart, the way he always had to be in charge, how he was never wrong. Even his obsession with home improvement shows has lost its impact when I flip through the channels late at night.
Instead it’s those smaller things that still linger, dormant, but just until I stumble over any one of hundreds of keys.
I walked into an empty elevator one day and as the doors closed it was like I’d been wrapped in him all over again. I cursed and breathed through my mouth but it didn’t help. I could taste it. Taste him. And suddenly I remembered how we would lie in bed with the window above us open to the warm sunlight. Mostly naked, he’d lie on top of me, dozing, are fingers entwined. And I’d breathe him in while memorizing the lines on his fingers, died black by the paints he’d used.
I bought a water bottle like any number of thousands of other days. But this day, on this special day, with the plastic pressed to my mouth, I remembered. He always liked to drink with the whole nozzle of the bottle between his lips.  Pressed tight to keep from spilling, arching his tongue to keep from gagging. Obscene. Unintentional. And in those early days, completely fascinating.