August 29, 2009

Laura’s gone. Her last pieces of furniture removed. Her closet empty. The walls now barren and cold. Who the hell chose that awful shade of white for our bedroom anyway? Oh, yeah. It was me.

It ended just as quickly as it began. She came back from Asia the day after my birthday. Gave me a silk tie. Shriveled from my touch.

“This is bad timing,” she said, “but we need to break up.”

I went and hid under the bed covers for the rest of the evening. Spent the night awake, shivering, angry, and her sleeping on the couch.

I knew she stopped loving me months before. But I clung on to her through our restless nights of sweat and drifting. Clung to her and pined for her, and when that didn’t work I screamed, shouted, smashed plates, tried to leave, just to come back and grasp for her once more. And each day we grew sadder.

Then she went to Asia to find herself, happiness. Asia is full of tiny people and elephants and she fit right in. I told her I missed her something dreadful, missed her with my raging cock and shaking heart.

“You don’t have to miss me that way,” she wrote back. And I knew we were breaking up.

And it ended, not with a bang but a whimper. There was silence while she packed her clothes. She seemed happy, calm, unperturbed, her eyes smiling with the promise of future adventures. I was an anxious mess and spent my evenings wandering the streets with the dogs.

And now the house sits empty and all I have are tiny mementos of the last four years. And regrets.