twelve things that never happened

She never got around to changing the locks on the big mahogany door. It remained a sturdy barrier to friends and the postman but did not protect her from her most dangerous potential visitor.

She never did take off the ring. Not that she didn't think of it, but whenever it occured to her she was someplace inconvenient. Though it meant nothing now she couldn't bear the thought of losing it, of it falling through one of the holes in her pockets and down some gutter full of pennies and dolls' eyes. She sleepily put it on every morning without thinking, because her finger felt wrong without its weight.

She never mended the holes in her pockets. She didn't feel like it mattered. She had nothing worth holding onto.

She would never, as it turned out, go dancing again. Instead she danced indoors, in the living room with the blinds drawn or in the darkness, a silhouette and her shadow on the yellow wall of the hallway. When she danced she had to force herself, because all the songs felt old and tired or gimmicky and incomprehensible. The only time she moved without being in control of it, it was out of nervousness, a dance of impatience instead of the dances of seduction and celebration she used to know.

She never laughed. Not real laughs. The noise that came out was askew, her mouth twisted in the grimace of someone having a heart attack. She barked and snorted instead.

She never burned the things he left behind, though she said she had. Without him they were just shells, staging areas, historical landmarks. They had nothing new to tell her and the memories they used to be full of were washed away with the months and years. Pathetically, she hung onto them anyway, waiting for that piano to animate itself again with the magic only he could give it.

She never minded when someone pointed out it was her fault. Of course it was her fault. She wasn't a talented woman, but she could ruin anything and I mean anything. She should have been a demolition.

She never smoked another cigarette after the pack she burned through waiting for him to come back home. She could have, her weakness would be an affront to no one now. But she didn't deserve that happiness, and when she thought of lighting up a cigarette she felt a nostalgic surge that reminded her of a braver self. She knew it was an illusion and that girl was gone.

She never shed a single real tear. Maybe because she never really believed it.

She never loved him so much as after he left. Her days were silent ceremonies interrupted by unbearable nuisances like hunger or the phone. She'd been lucky and she'd been a fool and hindsight made it sharply clear. Maybe he wasn't rich, but he'd given her the moon, even if it was just a clear night and a mirror of water in his hands. Maybe he didn't tell her everything, but no one ever told her anything as magical as the things he said. Even if she'd wanted more, she missed what she'd had, missed the words he would have spoken to her since. He was her first and last thought each day, and frequently occupied the bulk of the middle part. When she came back down to earth and was forced to remember his absense, the pain was real and physical.

Of course, he never came back.