It doesn’t feel like I’m important to him anymore. It didn’t
feel personal. I was just another half-finished part of the assembly line,
nameless and undistinguished. It was routine. It was something I felt I had to
do and what he thought he had to do instead of what it used to be. It was no
longer the thing I looked forward to but the thing which was expected. I could
have left the line and just gone home, maybe that would have been better. I’ve
never done that and maybe I would have if he hadn’t stopped and scooped me up
in his arms from behind on his way to the souvenir table. I’ve never left
without saying hello but then again he’s never forgotten how to spell my name,
he’s never treated me like any one of the other fans, just another autograph
and quick hello. There was none of the spark there always used to be when he
kissed my cheek, no butterflies when we hugged. When the show was over I was
glad instead of wanting it to go on, and I didn’t care that he didn’t try to
hit that last note. I gave up on that a long time before I gave up on him. Why
should it be different than the other 28 times? He never has and he never will
and it’s just not worth wishing for anymore. It’s the same canned speech and
the same stupid whirling patriotic lights and little American flags, the same
songs in the same order and the same jokes and the same woman waddling up to
wipe his sweat and the same little girls running to wrap a lei around his
wrist. He wiggles his hips and drapes a scarf over my neck and leaves just a
trace of chapstick behind on my cheek but it’s all the same cheap karaoke and
it’s just not exciting anymore and it’s not any fun. The platitudes are forced
and the hugs don’t mean anything and I still have to smile to their faces and
grimace behind their backs and pretend I’m not dying inside because one of the
last reachable things that kept me going after everything is gone.
