I read and reread every message, replaying every interaction, imagining different scenarios. I find the answer, and then have a million more questions. I curse myself and assume all the blame. I remember his flaws and believe I was wronged. I think it was doomed. Then I believe it could still work. I’m alternately at peace, then tormented. All the while, our ties have been cut with frightening ease. The love of my short life. Two years. Gone.
I don’t have clothes or make up, or books, or even a strand of hair at his house. And he has nothing of his at mine. I can’t miss falling asleep next to him, or the weight of his too-hot arms draped over my body in the morning, because he could rarely stay the night. I have no pictures of us to decide whether to treasure or burn in angst, because we never took them; he preferred not to. Save for the text messages that could be from someone else, the nondescript towels he bought for my place, the toothbrushes I bought that he never used, his favorite beer I stocked that he never drank, the bottle of champagne I kept chilled that we never popped, the holiday present I never gifted…All the memories I planned to make…He’s just disappeared. His scent lingers nowhere. Gone without a trace.
Almost like he never existed. Like we never existed. In a cynical moment, I wonder if that was intentional.
A few miles away, right now, he’s probably moving from his study with a glass of bourbon, turning his blues music off, and heading upstairs to sleep. He will go to bed tonight, and his wife will ask what’s wrong. He’ll say nothing-meaning he doesn’t want to talk-and she’ll understand. Their voices will be hushed so as not to wake their son, the perfect product of sensical love, from his slumber. And she’ll cuddle him without badgering. It’ll be quiet and tense, but they’ll fall asleep, comforted, listening to the sounds of one another’s breathing. Knowing whatever private frustrations and sorrows they each have this evening, they’ve got the rest of their lives to talk them through.
And I’m alone.