Sixty, Fifty-Nine, Fifty-Eight

On our first date, our only date, I lied to you when you asked me about my biggest fear. Sinkholes, I said. My therapist had suggested I cultivate a tangible one, something I could see and avoid rather than my fear of time, which was abstract and ubiquitous enough to be paralyzing. The lies came fast after that, smooth little rocks that I set on the table between us: Yes, I like French cinema; no, I just haven’t met the right guy yet; yes, I love to hike.

I probably should have told you the truth. I should have told you that I don’t have calendars or clocks in my apartment. I should have told you that I count in loops backwards from 60 when I start to panic. I should have told you that I can’t look at stars because their distance is measured in years, that I don’t acknowledge birthdays, that there wouldn’t be a second date because two points make a timeline.

That night as we lay in bed, no light coming through the curtains I closed tight enough to keep out the moon, you said not to worry, that you’d protect me from my fear. For just a moment I thought maybe I’d let you try. Maybe this time would be different. But then I remembered all the lies, stacked like a cairn–nineteen, eighteen, seventeen–and I laughed. I told you there was nothing you could do, and I’m afraid it probably came across as dismissive, particularly when I got out of bed and pulled on my dress, listing facts about limestone soil and underground rivers.

I liked you. You were kind.

As I slid on my sandals, I told you that the thing about sinkholes is that you can’t prepare for them because you don’t see them coming. The groundwater washes away the soil between the rocks, I told you, leaning over to kiss you, and then, three, two, one, it all collapses.