Break Up

Months of planning, fantasying how it’s going to go down, all stemming from a question of what brought us to this breaking point. It’s a question that needs clarity, the kind that you must climax (by one’s self) to verify the decision is sound. The clarity came, and the decision was made.

I had to get out.

All the stuff was already packed up: my clothes, my excessive amount of books that haven’t been read, the old games played once but will be play again but not anytime soon, the books of fad diets that can’t really be fad diets, old pictures of myself that I have no intention on keeping though my mom did but now she doesn’t want them either, and I’m ready to take the dog— she’ll kill me when she notices. The Snap Chat of her and the girls with the caption, “5^th rounds of mimosas make me cray cray,” signals that I have a little time. She can’t hold her liquor and her friends will call her an Uber soon.

My heart thumps against the center of my chest, doubting if I’m making the right decision. The sweat speaks to the doubt, repeating the same question are you sure? Are you really sure? How can you really be sure? My clothes absorb what they can, but I struggle with decisive decisions. My shirt, soaked through, never stood a chance. Water wets my lips, and nothing waivers my stress. I sit, but the stillness doesn’t come. I lie down, but I think I’m just lying to myself.

Am I overthinking this?

Lining up my experience, showing how staying leads down the same path of disappointment, and ultimately, loneliness. This is me getting ahead of this. Leaving now leaves us in a good place…eventually. She won’t understand now, but she will. She’ll live her life, I’ll live mine. Maybe we can line up again, in a different way, link up to realign what our relationship could be. Life as friends…it can’t be that bad, right?

No, I’m sure.

The couch cradles me, like it usually does, soothing me, finally, to the point where my chest opens. The tension goes, cowering somewhere else, allowing my conscious to make peace what the decision. I’m gone for good. I imagine it, the freedom, and finding that means more than anything I could forge in this cage.

#

I jump up.

Time has run away. I panic to find it. It’s not on my wrist, the wall, my pocket, and I scramble for my phone. The search switches from my phone to her.

Is she home?

I leap off the couch, running through to the living room, to the guest room, the den, the master bedroom, the master bathroom, the patio…and finally the garage. Wait, why would she be in the garage? I walk back into the kitchen and check the stove.

The stove?

It’s off, which makes sense, since I didn’t cook anything. My hover my hand over the stove top, and its room temperature, because duh, I’m starving and wish I made food when I came home. The stove has no real interest to me, but something is drawing me to it. The smell— I smell smoke.

Smoke?

I check my phone. No messages or notifications. No crazy alarms signaling any emergency. Two quick sniffs confirm that yes, something is smoking, but the third sniff hits my sinuses, recoiling me back. It smells like burnt hair. Maybe the neighbor is learning how to grill. Whatever’s one it, it’s charred through.

Maybe they didn’t clean their grill. I take step outside to see which neighbor it is.

Now I can feel the heat. It’s close. Too close to be on someone else’s property. I walk around to the front to see where it’s coming from. It’s in the front yard, and she’s standing next to it.

My boxes are on fire.

My stuff…all of it, charred in a smolder pile of black. Towards the side you can still make out articles of clothing, the computer, charred books that tried to escape but couldn’t get out fast enough. All of it crumble in front of the culprit. She watches me with the courage that says I had this coming.

“You should have just left.” She says. It’s confirmed. I did.

“Why…why are you doing this?”

“I’m cleaning up.”

The fire crackles. A crowd forms around the neighborhood, all of them watching intently. The view starts from down the street, from the single mom from next door, to the lonely woman on the other side of the street. Some have phones out, other close their month. I can feel their disappointment, but not as strong as hers.

“Help me put it out!”

“No.”

“You made your point!”

“Just leave.”

“What?”

“That’s what you wanted. I made it easier for you.”

She looks through me, focusing on her home where her stuff is safe and sound. I look back at the house, hoping that there’s more inside

“It’s all here.” She walks by, averting her gaze. “I took care of it. You’re free to go.”

She sashays to the door, lacking the sensual connotation the walk usually has. The context changed. She her strength is still there. She reclaimed it through the lack of trust, the lack of confidence that our relationship provided. She draws strength from a different place now. Spite drives her now.

My dreams burn. My regret replaces the desire to leave. My shame is on the front lawn, in flames, forced upon the world. I have nothing to fight the shame that’s aimed at me, building within me, fanning the guilt. Everything is gone, and here I am…

#

…in the living room?

My eyes dart around the room. I stand in front of the crouch, sweating through my shirt. I see that I sweated on the couch too. My couch.

My stuff!

I dart to each room, ripping open boxes, pulling random items out as fast as I can. I move box to box, ignoring the smell of fire in my nose. A jingling of keys makes me stop. A clank rings through the other side of the door, as well as expletive. The door opens slow, and I stand on the other side, smiling as hard as I can. She jumps back when she sees me.

“Oh. What’s this?”

“I’m so glad to see you.”

Her embrace delays from confusion, but I don’t care. I just hold her.

#

The day is normal. She wanted to go for a walk, and with this newfound respect for the relationship, and a diversion from a hasty decision, I complied. There was no thought of burning, brunch, or boxes. We talk about average things, like her work, my ailing grandmother, and what her week entails. It was so mundane; it would have been maddening on different day.

Now, I smelled smoke.

“I think it would be good for me— are you listening?

“Oh, I’m sorry.” It smells like a type of wood, mixed with burnt hair. “I wasn’t.”

“We can talk about it later.” She took a few steps and waved at the people across the way. Some of the neighbors are looking at us. Watching us— staring as if we had done something wrong. “What’s up with that?

A few steps later, she notices more people. Couples walking by, staring. When they wave, it’s reactionary, though their gaze never falters. They look as if to show they know something, some shared secreted that we aren’t aware of, or at least, don’t know was revealed. 

“I hate it when people stare.” She says, but she walks, head up high, pride in her step.

The next block, eyes sear into the side of my head. The old lady walks with dumbbells, kids play in the street, a man walks his poodle; all of them look at us, finding something we don’t know. She keeps walking, and I finally notice that they aren’t looking at us. They’re looking at me. I keep walking, trying to keep her from noticing.

“You coming?” She says, looking back at me with a squint in her eye.

I look at her and nod. I block it all out. The noise, the nosy neighbors, the nagging feeling of holding some secret that apparently everyone knows about. I’m happy, she’s happy,  we’re happy. That’s all that matters.

“There he is.” She says, then smiles. “Did you notice something? Something I’m wearing?”

To be honest, I couldn’t tell. It could be a new tank top or leggings, maybe even new sneakers. I think she got a new Fitbit. She’s talked about it all month. I smile to try to distract her, keeping her happy, working to us and this relationship. I need to do what I can to keep moving through all of this.

Because all I notice is the smell of burning.