I Remember, Do You?

     What do you say when there's nothing left to say?
     We are sitting across from each other, sneaking glances in between awkward conversation starters that don't lead to anything. I look at him through eyes that flicker away after a few seconds. I can see every contour on his face, the degree of his jawline, the tiny blotches of tan freckles on his cheeks. I envision how his eyes turn a startling blue-green when he is excited and a cloudy grey when he is upset.
     He is looking down, but not because the silence lingering between us is too unpleasant even for him. No, he is looking at his watch. The Rolex watch with the braided black silicone band and analog dial that his mother gave him last Christmas. He fingers the loops of the band, tapping his foot softly to the synchronized rhythm of the watch as it ticks away the seconds of a wasted conversation. He sighs, inhaling tension and exhaling frustration.
     Finally, he mutters, "It's late. I should go now." His voice is smudged somewhere between the lines of uncomfortable and annoyed. He looks tired, like if he closes his eyes, they will sink into his face and never resurface.
     I wonder if he can see me at all, all the parts of me he used to love. Does he see the skin he had touched so many times before? What about the hair that was always unruly but he compared to that of a queen’s? He said he wouldn't be able to forget how my eyes almost shone in the dark. I wonder if he has written any poems for other girls lately.
     Most of all, I want to ask him if he remembers that hot July night. I want to know if he can still feel the stickiness of the Pennsylvanian dew on his skin. I want to know if he remembers that I commented that the stars looked just like the freckles that dotted his face. I want to know if he remembers how "And I Love Her" by The Beatles came on the radio and I shouted that it was our song. I want to know if he remembers how we confessed things we hadn't really meant but made up for with stolen kisses and extra shots. I want to know if he remembers how he mentioned that my lips tasted like peppermint infused the bitterness of the drinks whose bottles littered the ground. I want to know if he remembers how my voice cracked when I said, "I love you," quiet but genuine.
     But I do not ask him. Instead, I answer, "Me too."