Thinking About Her

I watch the news sometimes.

Just to see if the world's still spinning, still moving, working, buzzing. Watch the people smile and frown and fake those smiles and frowns and cry and laugh and argue and get annoyed with each other because that's what people do.

I like watching the news.

But people keep on dying, so I turn it off.

Sometimes I wonder if she's dead; would I know? Would I feel it? Would it be like an electric shock just to know she's not part of the world, that she won't be there to smile and yell and cry at it?

But maybe she's alive. Maybe she's happy. Happy without me.

I don't know and I'm not supposed to care, but I do.

I think about her until it hurts sometimes. Hurts to think about her under the sheets, think about her on the couch, think about her toes curling around my ankles, think about the moles on her neck, think about her green eyes in the morning, just like spring.

But I'm not supposed to think about her, because it's bad to hurt and bad to wallow and bad to just sleep until the days turn to nights and time feels like nothing. But I can't help it.

I think about how she hated daytime TV, and how she hated it when I left, and hated when I only did half a crossword puzzle, and when I'd leave out the cereal box, and when I left the toilet seat up, and when I tried growing out a beard.

I think about when she thought I had fallen asleep and she would take off my glasses and dogear the page in my book I was on and whisper softly goodnight. But I was always awake.

I think about how she was a backseat driver, and how she knew how to annoy me better than anyone. I think about how she called me by my last name McGee, and teased me about my cowlicks, and read the biggest, most boring books. I think about how she never wore her glasses because she thought they made her look stupid, but I liked them. I liked everything. From her corkscrew curls to her collarbones, from the dusty freckles on her back to the white hairs on her belly, her knobby knees to her cold, cold feet.

I think about how she liked it when I would play the guitar, and when I would sing to her sometimes, and how I would call her darling, and when I would remember to pick up milk while I was out, and when I would remember to call my parents, and when I would send her pictures of things that made me think of her, and how I was horrible at swearing and whistling and opening beer bottles.

I think about how she was so smart, but always denied it and hated it when I called her 'brain'. I think about how she hated sports and loved spy novels and got really passionate when she was talking and her eyes would light up and it would feel like the whole world was listening. I think about when she said goodbye with a fuck you, so sad and angry.

I think and I think some more and some more and some more, because once I start, it all comes back.

It hurts to think. Not even a good hurt, but the ache in my chest like everything's breaking and I can't do a thing. The choked up hurt, the kind that tears me up real good and makes me wish I was dead.

So, maybe I won't think anymore. Maybe I'll just open the window to the snowy city night where the sky is stained gray because the lights just won't let it be dark. But then I see her hailing a taxi on the curb and getting in and not even looking back. Some of her things are still here and it hurts to look at those things. Makes me think I should have run after her, should have shouted for her, told her I would make the time, I would be better if she would just stay. But she left and I stayed quiet and now all I can do is think about her as the people on the daily news die and the world spins madly on.