Threat Quality Press

She had two things of mine. A shirt and a glass. And by the end, I couldn’t really call either of them “mine” anymore.

The shirt was easy to give away.

She stayed over my place one night and wanted to sleep in something comfortable. The secret fast-lane into a man’s heart – ask to wear one of his shirts. I swear to god, it works every time.

So I gave her a red cotton button-up with an understated yellow check pattern. I think I’d bought it at JC Penny. By today’s standards, it would probably look a bit on the dorky side, but at the time, it was the most comfortable shirt I wore, and so it was my favorite.

Red cotton on smooth brown skin. It looked great on her. She looked great in it.

I never saw it again.

After we’d broken up, when we’d gotten to something resembling a friendly place again, I asked after it, and she admitted to me, a bit grudgingly, that she still slept in it.

I told her to keep it. I realized then that I was still in love with her. Letting her keep that shirt – which, if I’m being honest, she probably had no intention of returning anyway, if I’d pushed the issue – was the only way I could tell her.

But it’s the glass I really miss. Because I never got a chance to drink out of it.

We were at a flea market on a summer Saturday night. She’d disappeared for a while. “Labyrinthine” was the only word to describe this ramshackle hillbilly knick-knack emporium, so it wasn’t insane for me to fear I’d never see her again.

But eventually she rematerialized, grinning excitedly.

She had a devil’s smile, mischievous and joyfully sneaky. It was rare that she’d break that grin out in full force, so when she did, I paid attention. I knew it meant something to her.

After some prodding, she showed me what she was hiding behind her back. It was a tumbler, with images of silent movie stars etched on its sides framed in copper. Clara Bowe, Rudolph Valentino. It was gorgeous.

She told me she bought the glass so I could drink bourbon out of it at her new apartment. It was the most thoughtful gift she’d ever gotten me. It was her way of telling me she wanted me to be at home with her. Showing me she knew who I was and what I liked, and that she’d listened all those times I rambled on about my quirks and fascinations.

We broke up before I ever got a chance to christen it.

Even after we got back to that friendly place, and even though I asked about the shirt, I never asked about the glass. Partly because I thought it would be stupid to inquire over something I never even got to use, partly because I didn’t want to show weakness by letting her know I remembered it at all, and partly because the idea of bringing it up was simply too painful.

And then before I ever got a chance to decide to man up and tell her anything of importance, a stupid, quiet disease – which, stubborn as she was, she told so few people about – got the best of her, and she was gone.

After she died, I hated myself for being so callous as to wonder what happened to that shirt and that glass. Everyone grieves in their own way, I suppose. And in my way, I wanted to know what became of those relics of our relationship. Still, it felt tacky, and I was ashamed.

A week after the funeral, her mom invited her daughter’s friends to go through her things, and take anything that would serve as a reminder, a keepsake. I didn’t join in. It didn’t seem right.

The shirt didn’t concern me that much anyway, by that point. Clothing rips and disintegrates. Even if I’d salvaged it, I probably would’ve blown out the elbows by now. Didn’t even matter. It was hers from the moment she first slipped it on.

But any time I pour a bourbon, I wonder what happened to that silent film star tumbler.

Five years later, and I still wonder.

Most likely, it’s sitting on a thrift store shelf somewhere. But I hope it’s not.

I hope someone with esoteric tastes saw it on that shelf and bought it. I imagine them drinking out of it as I write this. And I hope they feel something they can’t quite explain when the bourbon touches their lips.

I hope they feel like they’re being welcomed home.