My Dinosaur Life

”I fell asleep watching Veronica Mars again.”

(Him)

I turn up the television to drown out her yelling at me.

You know, like when you’re a baby and you close your eyes, and you think the world disappears?

You can’t see me if I can’t see you.

I’m playing metaphorical peek-a-boo, and I’m failing miserably.

“Would you turn that shit off already?! I’m trying to talk to you!”

It works even less as you get older, believe me.

“All you’re doing is screaming at me,” I answer dully.

“I’m sorry, Justin,” she says calmly. “Would you mind. Answering. My. Fucking. Question?” she growls with fake serenity.

Rage is starting to seep through my pores, even though I’ve been trying my best to control it lately.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Annie!?” I demand, standing up and turning around to face her.

“If you don’t already know, then I’m not going to tell you,” she retorts stubbornly, crossing her arms and scowling.

“So typical,” I spit back with venom. “You cheat on me, and now you’re mad; playing your fucking games again.”

She freezes up.

“I’m leaving,” she states quietly, and even though she sure as hell deserves it, I feel like a complete fuck for bringing it up.

I attempt to shove the guilt away with words my mouth doesn’t consult with my brain before saying.

“Fine. Just run away. Let me tell you, it’s one thing you’re good at,” I add snidely.

That guilty feeling is steadily increasing with every shitty true word, but I still can’t make myself shut up.

“I’m not coming back,” she adds, furiously.

“Right,” I scoff. “Just like the other seven times. Make it an eighth, Annie.”

“This time I mean it,” she insists, glaring.

I don’t really believe her, but I almost do for a split-second; that’s how good an actor she is.

“Do whatever you want,” I continue, ignoring her and going back to sitting on the couch with my back to her. “You’re just going to come back in a few days anyway.”

“Fuck you, Justin!” she yells, throwing some obscure object at me, as usual. Her face is probably turning a frustrated pink, too, like it always does when she’s flustered. Something barely skims my left ear and hits the wall, but I wouldn’t have even blinked if the saltshaker hit me square in the back of the head.

“Next time, aim a little more for the right,” I say, clenching my fists at my sides in angry impatience.

“If you let me walk out this door, I’m not coming back,” she says, and I can hear her going about, picking up her favorite things and throwing them into her duffel bag.

Just like always.

And all I can think about is how I’m so sick of fucking chasing her affection.

How I can’t handle the constant fights for much longer, even if they’re all followed by make-up sex.

“I swear, Justin. This is it.”

I don’t say anything; I stare at the blaring television screen in front of me.

“Fine.” I hear something else crash to the floor as she bumps into it. The toaster, maybe, it sounds like. She’s always been too clumsy for her own good. “I don’t need you.”

I wince as the door slams behind her.

I don’t move from the couch.

I went after her the first two times, and it only made things worse.

She’ll be back in a few days, when she cools down, and we’ll pretend this never happened.

But it destroys me every single time.

I fall apart inside when she does things like this.

And the only thing I can tell myself is that she’s coming back.

I think.

I hope.

I raise the volume on the tv and try to fall asleep.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

She’s been gone for over a week.

It’s the longest she’s ever been gone.

I’ve slept on the couch with the tv blaring every night since then.

Trying not to drown or remember too much.

I’ve managed not to start drinking or smoking again, like I did the first few times.

Partly because when she’s around, I just happen to be out of anything the slightest bit mind-altering.

I start at the sound of the door opening and turn around in surprise.

She’s standing there in the doorway, with the guilty half-grimace and hair mussed by the wind.

“I brought take-out,” she offers, showing me the bag she’s carrying from the local Chinese restaurant, in addition to her obnoxiously bright duffel bag full of clothes and random belongings on her shoulder.

I glance at the clock, noting that it’s just past 11pm.

She sets the food on the counter then comes to join me on the couch.

I don’t ask her where’s she’s stayed.

I don’t ask her why she keeps doing this to me.

I don’t ask anything.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming back this time,” I admit, letting her curl up next to me.

“Me too,” she confesses softly, resting her head on my shoulder. I pull her closer.

I’m craving her body heat.

I’ve been so cold lately, I feel like a reptile.

A pathetic, lazy, fat one, at any rate.

“You scare me when you do that,” I say, since I’m already in the confessing mood.

“I know,” she replies, but it’s not in a taunting or know-it-all way.

It just is.

It’s shit, but it’s true.

Half an hour later, half-empty Chinese food containers are strewn about the coffee table, and she’s leaning against my chest as we watch tv.

Forgive and forget.

It’s what my therapist says I should do in my relationships; he says that’s why it’s so hard for me to keep them.

I can’t ever forget.

And remembering makes the forgiveness obsolete.

Good memories make me want to salvage the relationships, even if they’re shitty.

Bad memories make me want to leave, because I know I’ll fuck everything up eventually, if she doesn’t first.

Recently, the bad memories are winning, but they’re kept at bay for now by the fact that I can feel her heartbeat on mine, she’s so warm, and she’s snoring softly in that funny way of hers.