Deconstruction

The wind freezes my tears before they come out of my eyes and I don't really mind. I hate crying, even if it seems that it's all I've been doing lately. I can't remember a day where I haven't, at the very least, teared up. It's been months.

When Matt had hit the floor, I had just stared. He had been a crumpled heap, curled up amongst the dust and toast crumbs and bawling his eyes out while I just stared at him like he was some kind of disease or animal. I should have felt something. I should have wanted to pick him up, to bring him to the bedroom and lay with him until the tears had left his eyes and soaked his pillow. That's what I should have wanted to do.

Instead, I'd grabbed my jacket and ventured back out into the cold again. It was a stupid decision but I couldn't stay with him while he was crying. My nose is freezing and my fingers have lost the ability to move but it's still better than being with Matthew while he sobbed. There are no other souls wandering the street; I'm the only one crazy enough to risk freezing his ass off. The streets are, however, lined with pubs and voices drift out of each one, beckoning me to come enjoy the fine company and, most of all, the warmth. It's been months since I was in a pub; I do most of my drinking at home while Matt is sleeping. But a shot or two of whiskey does sound awful nice to my shivering body and I walk into the next one I see.

It's a rather generic pub, crammed with smoke and yelling bodies, which means that it's perfect for what I want. There's a football game happening on the fifty-inch television, which is where most of the yelling is coming from. I'm not a fan of either of the teams so I settle at the bar, ordering a shot of whiskey from the distracted bartender. It scorches my throat going down but I order another and send it the same way.

At home, I know Matt is probably just ending his crying. When Matt starts to cry, it's nearly impossible for him to stop. The first time I convinced him to watch Moulin Rouge, my guilty pleasure, he literally spent the entire night sobbing so loudly that I couldn't sleep. We used to watch it at least once a month and every time, he would cry.

Now, our well-worn copy of the DVD is gathering dust in the cabinet at home, along with the rest of our films. Matt and I haven't watched a film together in months. We haven't done anything together. He reads his books and I surf the television or flip through a paper I picked up. It's the same thing, every single night.

I order a third shot of whiskey and wash it down just as quickly. The football fans alternately yell and boo, depending on which team is doing well. No one else in the bar seems to notice me, which is perfectly fine by me. My eyes are feeling... peculiar so I order a final shot and stop. The days are long gone where I spent most of my time either drunk, high, with Matthew or all three. I rarely drink; maybe a glass of wine with video or a beer when I visit Chris. But that's it.

I miss Matthew. I miss what him and I had, when we would stay naked in bed all day, just talking and drinking tea. I miss when he would wake me up in the middle of the night to drag me to some all night art show by some obscure modern artist. I miss dozing off on a museum bench while he tried to explain the significance of a shovel hanging from the ceiling to me.

Fuck.

I put my elbows on the shined countertop and hold my head up, pushing my palms into my eyes. Tendrils of hair fall into my face but I ignore them. I notice that the football fans have quieted down and, looking up, most of them are filing out of the bar, talking in undertones to their buddies. Groaning, I slam my head down onto the counter, digging my fingernails into my scalp.

I miss everything.

Someone lays a hand on my shoulder and I look up, wanting them to go away and leave me alone in my hole of self-loathing. To my surprise, there's a woman standing there, bundled up in a warm jacket and hat. She's one of the soccer fans, judging from the logo on her jacket.

"It gets better, ya know?" For a moment, I think she's just being a good Samaritan, that some stranger genuinely cares for my well-being. Then she burps and pure vodka washes over my face. I resist the urge to vomit and instead force a smile.

"Thanks," I mutter. When she smiles back, I can't help but notice that she has nice lips. They kind of remind me of Matthew's; they're really thin but the spot above them, the angel's cleft or whatever the hell it is, is well defined. It's cute.

I realize she's gone and I'm dreaming of Matt. Groaning again, I order another shot, despite my promise that I wouldn't.

I miss Matthew's lips. I miss his kisses. I just miss all of him... and I don't know what to do to fix it.