I’m sitting here at 4 A.M, lurking in the kitchen, down by the sink. I was doing the dishes and that’s unusual of me. I don’t quite remember how I got here but I think it was when you put on your heels and slammed the door on me. Honey, I didn’t mean to make you walk out again tonight but I’m not worried because I know you’ll be back.
Her leaving was monotonous. She left at the crack of dawn, with her hair undone. I never found her more beautiful than when her mascara was rubbed off and her little skirt off center. She hated how she looked and hated me for saying she was more than just some twenty year old Broadway girl. I never understood her knots, you see. I untangled them every night but she was tied up within a matter of hours. Why she and I never lasted through the meager twenty four hours on the clock was the only question I had for her.
And so when tonight she left before we were in bed, I ran down the stairs looking for her. I could feel her in the cold apartment when I returned but nothing gave me respite from the loneliness she left behind. She’d taken her little bag of warmth with her baggage of distrust. The wine lays untouched, the mugs lay unwashed. I’m am unkempt mess without her steady, robotic movements on my arms.
And I’m here by the sink, wiping off lipstick stains from china cups and emptying bins lined with her tasteless treats. All I can think about is how she looks when her lips are an inch from mine, her breath mingled with spearmint, and how her hands make way into my soul and rip off years. She stole from me, she stole from the book I was. My pages are yellow and dog eared, but she’ll be back tonight, I’m sure. She’ll be back to straighten my edged breath and make the beds. To round off my story with an everlasting regret.