I Don’t Believe in That, But I Wish It Were True

The soft rain reminds me of Liverpool. I keep expecting the little black cat to be outside my window. But he isn’t there, and he isn’t coming back.

It’s dumping down buckets. I am caught in a torrential rain. Cars go by and hurl more water at me. I walk down the hallway and my shoes are squishing, leaving behind a trail of pooled water. I use a hairdryer to dry my shoes.

You kiss me like you were trying to reverse engineer the Big Bang Theory and looking for something astronomical in ordinary life. You cover my head, pretend the paparazzi are taking my unwanted photograph. “I can’t bear to say goodbye,” you settle on, “I love you, goodnight.”

You leave in that hotel bar, my head cradled in your neck, convincing me I’ll be fine with you and I’ll be married soon. You tell me to just pick a block and have kids and it’s a wonderful distraction. But distraction isn’t why I’ve waited so long for Lore.

I smile, put on a good face. Then mythically black out the room and heave into the hotel bed. The sheets smell clean and unfamiliar. I silently puke my heartstrings out and dry my tears, put on a black dress, and go out.

I weave through crowds of people, accents thick and obscure. I get myself a coffee to give myself a caffeine rush on top of an adrenaline rush. I go up into the Wheel of Liverpool for the third time, even though I’m mortified of heights. I am at the top. Last time I thought: is this the biggest mistake of my life?

This time I think, quietly, “Lore? Are you there?”

I look down the River Mersey, down the Albert Dock. I wander aimlessly. Go into the Beatles attraction, stand at their statues, and think again, “Lore?”

I go back again, to the lovelocks. I help two lovers find theirs, and they tell me not to give up on love. They tell me their love story. How they left everything to be together despite their families telling them they’re completely mad. They say the best love is, and it’s worth it. I look at the hundreds of lovelocks. Stories and dreams of hearts I’ll never know.

“I only wish I could leave a lovelock here with you,” I whisper in the wind and leave my kangaroo bracelet and walk back to my room.

I cry at that train station. I buy myself flowers and tell myself, as that lady told me, “We’re never really on the wrong train, are we, love? Because there is always another one. Either taking us forward or bringing us back.” It’s her first time on a train. Her son is getting married. She was buying shoes for the wedding.

Liverpool and London, England — it calls, someone is waiting there for you. I pop in my headphones, listen to the announcements, and get on the next train.

I don’t believe in that, but I wish it were true.