August

By Megan Smith

August was the month her heart stilled. It stopped beating the minute he smiled in her direction.

She could tell you every detail about those days in May. How every time the wind blew the tiny specs of sand would always find their way into her eyes and lodge in his hair. She could remember the euphoric feeling of running her hand through each strand almost individually and having a closeness that should’ve been impossible. Being able to see him clearly through the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. That was after a long and tireless conversation over why the best household utensil was obviously a spatula. That was when he first kissed her before quickly being interrupted by an overly excited German Shepherd bounding up to them. Shaking even more sand everywhere.

She could remember every detail of sitting across from him as he chopped up what was supposed to be the start of their dinner, always denying that the onions didn’t put the tears in his eyes but rather her poor attempt of a sing along to whatever Elton John song was playing. He would get a single crease of concentration right in the middle of his forehead and almost bite a hole through his tongue before looking up again for a simple millisecond, almost as if checking she was still there. She could still taste the £6 wine that slipped away all too quickly.

She could recount every intense fragment that transformed a month into a century. How seconds were slowly stretching and building to bridge even the largest ocean. Because she was so lost within the memory of it all. May wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her May was supposed to be filled with her college exams and the familiar stress that seemed permanently embedded inside her body so much so that strange rashes would appear then disappear on her elbows that made even the pharmacists scowl in defeat. That was supposed to be the only thing she couldn’t explain.

She liked being single. She had become good at it from 20 years of practise. She liked being able to decide to re-watch 16 seasons worth of Greys Anatomy without any negotiation, and she liked driving in her car and screeching out the lyrics of Taylor Swift’s “All Too Well” without looks of judgement (except those from other cars at traffic lights). She liked to plan out her day on a very distinctive calendar and when something, or indeed someone, disrupted that pattern, she swore she could throw a punch. It broke her cycle. How something could go on for a mere month but be so intense it infiltrates imperfectly recited traditions. How one mindset can be changed with a single smile.

He was her partner in a tutorial for a presentation first. He was that guy that when put on the spot with a hard question from the tutor was able to form an elegant answer practically stolen from a textbook. But he wasn’t arrogant like most of those guys were. She, however, had already finished the presentation by the time he decided to show up to help work on it. He offered to take her out for coffee to apologise and reluctantly she had agreed. Her face felt warm as she stood to leave, her forehead burning as she tripped over her chair, just catching herself before she fell to the floor.

That night after arriving home she recounted her embarrassment to her flatmates, who then opened a bottle of wine. It all felt far too real when he came around to watch hours of shitty reality tv as a “study break" with three women. Flatmates who would give an eyebrow raising stare at the concept of having a boy in their very single flat. Who would text in their group chat the instant they saw his hand brush hers.

“Bye? That’s all he said?” Olivia had asked her when she recounted her tale. He had been so blasé about it when they had sat down in the very same coffee shop, in the same seats and with the very same joke about her ordering a piping hot coffee in the start of summer as the first day. She couldn’t hear what he had said exactly because she was so distracted by the way the heat from the coffee mug burned through her permanently cold hands. His smile never faltered though as he listed every little detail of his jam-packed summer which to her translated to I won’t have time to see you.

But she had an internship to look forward to. One that she was really passionate about and had beaten so many people to get. She tried to convince herself she would not miss him. But she had never been a good arguer.

She focused on how the coffee made her palms turn a stained red like it would when the heat was too high in the shower. She watched the other people in the coffee shop. He kept talking as she watched the same barista that was there every day, who always had a smile for everyone. She predicted that after his nine-to-five shifts he went home to a house full of dogs and that he collected something totally niche like stamps or figurines, while also being very interested in historical literature. She smiled at the thought when he finally said, “but I’ll see you when we get back. Good luck with your internship.” See you later, she thought she might’ve said, and then he finally swallowed his pride along with the remnants of his cup of tea and left.

“And a ‘good luck on internship.’ Like he was firing me from a job,” she answered Olivia, who just shook her head. Both girls started laughing because they both knew that if she didn’t laugh, she would cry.

The only time she did cry was in the shower two weeks later. By then she was home but preparing to leave again, and he sent her a text message that was so generic and dull: Hey, how are you? The kind of message that you only ever send to a person that you once knew. Knew. Past tense because they were no longer were texting until 2am. They weren’t watching episode after episode of Criminal Minds until the sun came up. She didn’t feel the need to text him whenever she went to a café and saw someone put the jam and cream on in the wrong order to their scone (it happens more than you’d think). So, as she curled under her covers that night her tears lulled her to sleep. Then she didn’t bother crying about it again.

So here she was, memories flooding her system. Of sitting in the sand, wrapped up totally and consequentially by another person. Staring at the little quirks and habits while immersed in a poor excuse for a dinner date. To way back when he first wormed his way into her life. He got under her skin, into her home. He fashioned himself as a coat she could wear on a rainy day if she needed to. He did that, not her. She didn’t go looking for something, he found her. May ends, summer passes, and August comes to a close. Like almost everything does.

She went back to university after a long, busy summer spent romanticising life in all its glory. So many people she had met in life could easily belief that the world revolved around them. Until that May she didn’t even think the universe or fate or whatever bullshit was out there knew where to find her. That if she just focused on organising every millisecond of her day, somehow she would find where she was supposed to be. Then someone saw her for who she was. She thought of him, believed not in him, but – now she can see – in the idea of him. Believed that as soon as they were reunited on those cobbled streets, he would take one look at her and smile.

But here he was. Smiling away on the same cobbled street. The dimples full on show. A certain smile she used to think was unique for her. He wasn’t just smiling but waving as the early August leaves fell behind them. She could feel them and the wet crunch beneath her shoes. Except now her heart stilled in her chest. “Eliza” he called and she froze. Not because he was there smiling, but because he wasn’t smiling at her. His wave was meant for someone else. He looked straight through her and found somebody new.