Still Jaded by Wilson Koewing

It was a Facebook memory that found me on Jade’s page. I’d been deleting the memories for as long as I could remember but could never seem to get rid of them all. In her profile photo she was posing with a leg kicked up, smelling a sunflower. She was involved, and had been for some time, with a chef in Australia where she’d moved several years before. As a side project they ran a Louisiana themed Cajun food pop-up which they both positively glowed about. The Chef was good looking in a general way. Nothing distinct to remember about his appearance. I imagined him having the most stereotypical Australian accent possible. Jade had dyed her hair light Auburn. During our years together I’d never given much thought to her being seven years my junior, but as I’d recently turned 40, I couldn’t help but envy her youthful glow. It had been five years since I’d seen her in the flesh. The last time was during the two weeks she left our shared Denver apartment at the end of which I was to vacate for good. I can’t recall why she came by, but it was snowing outside and dark early that time of year. I was playing a baseball video game muted on the television and streaming Parks and Rec on my laptop. She sat on the couch across the room watching my reaction each time a joke landed that she knew I would enjoy. It was something she’d always done, and I could never stand it, but that night, on the outside looking in, I felt for it a painful fondness. We’d barely lasted two months in that apartment, which was a shame. It was a great place. I’d seen us in the clawfoot tub, candlelight. Smoking on the side porch, snow falling, red wine. Strolls over to South Broadway or Wash Park. Hobbies, crossword puzzles and tea. A chasing of youth or a fighting of years or a graceful succumbing. And though I’d have trouble defending myself, the truth was I wanted none of it back. Missed nothing. Not really. While once gushing, the wound had cauterized and been healed for so long all that remained were the digital scars that presented themselves through the opening of random screens instead of a rolled-up shirt sleeve or pant leg. I don’t remember Jade leaving that night. Or what she was wearing. Not a single word spoken. Only that I glanced over at some point, and she was gone. 

Wilson Koewing lives and writes in Marin County, California.

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