i threw him a farewell by A V Anjali Menon
I threw him a farewell party.
Hung additional lights in the living room, made sure the wine glasses sparkled, invested in expensive champagne like it was my duty. Played his favorite playlist in the background - Bon Iver, Damien Rice, a little Harry Styles. It had to be the best house party we’d ever hosted together at our place, since it was the last.
He was moving to New York for his big job in a big company. Big city of dreams with no room for me.
So I invited everyone we loved. My friends, his friends, who over time became one inseparable group. I had always played the mum: feeding everyone, remembering their birthdays, part of me hoping he’d notice how good I’d be at it someday.
I wore my burgundy dress, the one he once said made me look “dangerous.” I was letting him go in celebration, the mossy, infected part of me. But there was mist too, something tender in the bruising. It felt like a departure that deserved champagne, popcorn, some clinking, and twenty witnesses. He didn’t explicitly say we were over. He just joked “what will you do with all our furniture now, you don’t need them all”.
I passed drinks with steady hands, offered to light everyone’s cigarettes, danced with his friends, and let them call me sunshine. I laughed intensely at all the jokes everyone cracked, but no one knew what it cost me.
He said little. Hugged old friends. Avoided my eyes. At one point, he brushed past me and whispered, “You’re amazing, what am I going to do without you!”
I laughed, treating it like a good joke. Then went back to lip syncing to Amy Winehouse and danced like my bones weren’t melting. “How do you do it?” my friend asked. I smiled.
I have my grandma to thank for this. When grandpa was dying, she cooked us a feast - ghee rice, mutton fry, payasam. She served a table of thirteen with eyes swollen shut from crying. I remember eating dessert with a choking ache, my mouth sweet and ruined at the same time. While she performed at the center table, narrating stories from their days of courtship.
That same ache is back, coiled beneath my ribs. And this wine tastes like goodbye again, again. But this is how it shall go - without tears, pleadings, or debates.
By the time everyone left and it was time to wrap the show, he kissed my forehead. “Early flight,” he said, and disappeared into our bedroom.
I stayed up, cleaning plates and collecting trash. Watered the plants we had adopted through the last three years: Basil, Prickles, Ramen.
I wondered if he’d tell his new friends in Manhattan about the girlfriend who threw him a goodbye party with glittering lights and clinking glasses. The one who invented the poorest puns, but cracked him up everytime. But no, he wouldn’t admit it, there is no version of his story where he’d come out smaller.
In the morning, I woke to an empty bed and two missed calls from my mother. She doesn’t know yet, I will tell her next week. I brewed black coffee. Took it to the balcony. The sky looked washed. A little too clean. A breeze rustled the bougainvillea. Prickles had a new bud.
A V Anjali Menon is an Indian writer and spoken word artist based in Tallinn, Estonia. She travels with her poetry books, performing her spoken word sets at slam, open mics, and curated gigs. You can find her work here: https://www.instagram.com/anjali.menon.av/
