I remember the summer I met her. She was tall, taller than the mutual friends that introduced us, and just a few centimeters taller than I am. Pretty, with long black hair framing a round face, and skin the light brown of the coffee I stopped drinking some years before, but was tempted to start again. And she was smart, smarter than everyone else there, smarter than me, so I fell instantly in love.
In the fall she went away, parting with a kiss – our first – before getting on the plane and flying off to the other side of the country. We wrote to each other, every day at first, but less often as she got busy and the distance stretched.
She came home as winter set in, and we flew together like magnets. Three weeks of romance before she was gone again, promising a return in the spring.
In the spring she wrote to say she wasn’t coming back. She didn’t say anything else – not that she had met someone else, or that she no longer felt anything for me, or that the distance was too much. Just that she wasn’t coming back. Perhaps it was the lack of definition, or maybe that she never wrote to me again, that kept me from getting over her. Like she ended unresolved, a piece of music cut off before the last note, a story without an ending.