Page 206 - In Five Years

He holds me in his arms, and then he kisses me. Slowly and then faster, trying
to communicate something, trying to break through.
We undress quickly.
His skin on mine feels hot and raw and urgent. His touch goes from languid to

fire. I feel it around us, all around us. I want to scream. I want to tear us apart.
We make love in that bed. That bed that Bella bought. This union that Bella

built. He traces his fingers over my shoulders and down my breasts. He kisses
my neck, the hollow of my collarbone. His body on top of mine feels heavy and
real. He exhales out sharply into my hair, says my name. We’re going to break
apart too quickly. I never want this to end.

And then it’s over, and when it is, when he collapses on top of me—kissing,
caressing, shuddering—I feel clarity, like it has clobbered me in the back of my

head. I see it in the stars. Everywhere. All above us.
I knew it all five years ago; I saw everything. I even saw this moment. But
staring at Aaron next to me, now, I realize something I did not know before, not

until this very moment: 11:59 p.m.
I saw what was coming, but I did not see what it would mean.
I look down at the ring I am wearing. It is on my middle finger, where it has

been since I put it on. It is hers, of course, not mine. It is the thing I wear to feel
close to her.
The dress, a funeral shroud.

This feeling.
This full, endless, insurmountable feeling. It fills up the apartment. It
threatens to break the windows. But it is not love, no. I mistook it. I mistook it

because I did not know; I had not seen everything that would get us here. It is
not love, this feeling.
It is grief.

The clock turns.