I wrote this in the past
FOR ONE WEEK, I allow myself to think about how, while we were having coffee, when you leaned over to look at the newspaper, I could see the tag on the inside of your T-shirt, under your sweater, against your neck. I could read the brand name. The detail was so paralyzing that I forgot how to swallow for a moment, and lost my place in the conversation. I tried to imagine you going into a store and picking out a sweater, choosing red over blue. I couldn’t. It didn’t fit anything I knew about you.
Remembering it that night in bed made me feel dizzy again even though I was lying down. D rolled over and turned off the light and I lay there not seeing the ceiling and thinking about your sweater tag, even though I also had stored the turn of that one piece of hair over your ear, and that slight smooth fingertip touch at the end of your nose, but it was the hidden tag behind your neck that kept me awake long after D’s breathing went deep and even. It was like hearing a song, and the minute the song was over, I’d pick up the needle and start the memory over again, even though it was only ten seconds long.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of the shower running and rolled over onto D’s abandoned pillow, stretching out and telling myself I could think of your sweater tag only until D got out of the shower, then no more. It was getting decadent.
I closed my eyes and picked up the needle, and at that moment the water shut off.