the habit of being

In the passenger seat of M’s beat up white Honda, I leaned forward over wrinkled gray skirt and pink tights, feeling a warm ache as I stretched the muscles in my back and legs. I was still sore from a three-hour yoga practice thrown into yesterday’s teacher-training session, and only after enjoying the sensation for a few seconds did I awaken again to my surroundings and realize the Hermes keychain and ID-holder I’d lost two months earlier was right in front of my eyes - under the seat. I’d long past cancelled the credit cards and resigned myself to the fate of having to get another new ID - my third. M launched into a bland story about a lost wallet he’d been a party to hunting for hours only to find it in some obvious spot, perhaps to avoid the fact that he told me he’d searched the car ages ago, and perhaps because we were nearing my street, the scene of far too many teary goodbyes in recent weeks.

Only last night, we’d found ourselves there in the car after seeing a movie, in an embrace which will only make sense to those who have attempted to sustain a friendship with an ex-lover when both parties are to some degree still in love: with one hand holding me close to him, he placed the other palm over my seeking lips and kissed the top of his hand instead. To my credit (being the one who was dumped), I made it inside and into the shower before shedding a tear. To his credit (being the breaker-upper), he didn’t.

This time, after I cursed about having forgotten my keys that morning only to remember that I had them right there in my lap on the lost keychain I’d just found, I exited the vehicle with my leftover French toast and minimal drama. These things are somewhat easier in the daylight.