The decision to separate was not cinematic. There was no raised voice, no slammed door—only a morning of folded laundry and two cups of coffee gone cold. Arjun was offered a residency in Lisbon that was charged with work, time, and space in which he could be totally focused. It was all he required--all that seemed like a wedge.
They attempted to enumerate the reasons to stay like two archivists, archiving memories: the first kiss along Waterloo Bridge, the times they tasted rain, the dinners with mixed dishes. But lists do not necessarily counteract momentum.
They separated with a mingled sense of sorrow and gladness so confused that neither could describe which was the foremost. The winter light made him look like he was sinking down the street and Maya watched him disappear. She knew she would never forgive him this time--but she also knew she would not die.
The initial months under separation were the most difficult. Maya found that mourning was not linear: it was a round-like tune that repeated on silent trains and even in the residual heat of their bed. Arjun made efforts through postcards and photos of azulejos at Lisbon. He would write letters of four pages on a foggy morning about a wave that had almost stolen his camera. Maya read them and the distance hurt and stiffened.
They were both training to live as two individuals who had led a life together and now had to train to be different. At times it was crass--a fortuitous collision in a gallery, an image that sparked an association. It was sweet sometimes--a cassette tape he would write and post with a scrap of paper: "Watch this because you feel big. Both were being remade.