The Lucky Ones

There are at least half a dozen dirty plates piled up in the sink now. I’ve been staring at those for a good ten minutes. Alright, maybe I’m not exactly staring – that is to say, I’m not completely aware that I am staring. I’m lost in that far-away place somewhere inside my own head. I’m day-dreaming or, rather, I’m trying to.

If I were not day-dreaming, perhaps I would realize the state of the place, and perhaps – perhaps I would wonder how it turned into such a mess. Because it’s not only the plates. There are empty bottles, more than I care to count, on the table. And there are clothes, dirty and clean – because I can’t really tell the difference anymore – strewn all across the living room. Were I not day-dreaming, I would perhaps wonder how and why things turned out like this. Although the question would be nothing more than rhetorical. The answer, as many already formulated it, is that it is my fault. Sarah has said it ten thousand times before, for sure.

I am the reason why this place is a complete mess – a dumpster, as she not so kindly put it last time she set foot in here. I am the reason why things were never quite in their rightful places when we lived together. I’m the reason why we never did all the things that we said we would. And, of course, I am the reason why our marriage fell to pieces.

I stare at the mess again, this time taking in the catastrophe that I’ve created. When I’m done despairing about it, I look back at the computer in front of me, and at the blank page. I sigh. This is going nowhere. Inspiration seems out of reach today. As it has been for the last couple of months. With that thought in mind, I close the page – with another sigh – just as a voice calls from the bedroom.

“Thomas?”

I shudder at the use of my full name – I always go by Tom. Turning my head, I watch the woman coming out of the bedroom, wearing close to nothing. I seem to remember that her name is Nathalie but I cannot, for the life of me, remember where I met her. Yesterday evening is all a bit of a blur. All nights since Sarah kicked me out two months ago have been a bit of a blur, to be honest.

“Yes, hon?” I mutter, closing the computer. Writing’s definitely not going to happen today either.

The woman attempts a smile and runs a hand through her hair. She looks down at the ground, possibly because she finds the whole situation as awkward as I do. I wonder if she remembers where we met. I wonder if she remembers anything at all about last night, because I sure as hell don’t, and I’m starting to regret it, judging by the way she looks at me.

“Thomas?” she repeats. She blinks several times.

I want to sigh, but I refrain. I do wonder when the hell she’s going to come out with whatever it is that she wants. Spit it out, I want to say. But that would be rude, wouldn’t it. So I just wait for her to finally get to the point, and I endure.

“Hi,” she says with a smile. “You alright?”

I nod.

“What time is it?” she questions, yawning.

Is this what she wanted to ask from the start? Because if that’s it, she’s really wasting my time. She doesn’t seem to be the smartest pea in the pod, that one.

I glance at the clock. “Five thirty.”

She nods in turn, rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Are you coming back to bed?”

“Nope. I’m working.”

I’m not, really, but I figure that this is the best I can say. I can’t sleep with someone else in the bed, to be honest. I just can’t.

“You should go,” I add after some hesitation.

“Hmm,” she mumbles, running a hand through her hair again, and turning towards the bedroom.

She doesn’t understand what I meant.

“You should go home,” I clarify.

She spins round and stares at me. “S-Sorry?” she says, wide-eyed, all sleep suddenly gone. “I should what?”

“You should go home,” I state matter-of-factly. Gosh, she’s definitely not the smartest one out there. “Listen, we both got what we wanted, so there’s no point dragging this on. It’s just as uncomfortable for me as it is for you. So, really, you should go home.”

She stares at me blankly for a moment. Her expression isn’t even shocked, it’s just non-existent. She stares like a dead fish.

“Honestly, Nathalie, you should go. People will tell you that I’m a jerk, anyway…”

She seems to come back to life and her eyes narrow. “It’s Valerie,” she hisses.

“You see,” I add, “it proves my point. I’m a jerk. Better go home right now. I got stuff to do and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“You really are a jerk,” she seethes.

“So I said,” I reply calmly.

After Valerie – or Nathalie, or whatever – has left, I feel quite drained. She did not go easily, muttering insults under her breath and shooting me glares that could have killed, and despite the fact that I see nothing wrong in being honest, I do not feel a hundred percent comfortable with my life how it is lived right now. But then again, when did I?

I lounge on the couch for a long time. There are a billion things that I could be doing - a billion things that I should be doing. I just don’t feel up to it. I don’t see the point. There’s still a blank document on my computer that awaits me. That’s what everyone expects me to do. The thing is… I’ve never been that good at doing what I’m expected to do. And even if I had been, it’s like, I don’t know. What’s the point, right?

There’s a lot of cleaning up to do, a lot of mess to clear, but I don’t know where to start. The sheer amount of things that need to be done paralyzes me. Everything seems to these days. I eventually decide to move, to start with something small, and sort through the pile of letters that has accumulated on the kitchen table. Some of these are unimportant, I throw them away. Most of these are bills. I wish I could throw them away. It’s the last one that makes me stop.

It takes a moment before I can work up the courage to open it, and when I do it, it’s hesitantly. There’s a single white sheet of paper in the envelope, but as I try to take it out, it falls on the wooden table, and lands – of course – on the perfect circle of fresh coffee that my cup made there a little earlier. I think my hands are shaking.

I can’t help staring as the coffee pierces through the paper, and as the circle now appears on the letter to. I stare at it so hard, trying to erase the words that I’ve just read, but it is impossible to forget. The letter bears the heading of a hospital – and not just any hospital, the one in my home town, the one where my mother died.

I’m old enough to know that receiving a letter from a hospital means no good, especially when you have no business with that hospital. I don’t want to read on. I don’t think I want to know exactly what the letter says, although I think I have a fairly good idea. I’m a coward and I prefer ignorance over knowledge. But I’m also a masochist, so I read on anyway.