Sunday

When you showed up on my door, your hair wasn’t pure dull blonde. The regrowth was showing through at the roots. I didn’t understand my fascination with your hair completely until that moment. The sun was high in the sky, and the light yellow parts of your hair didn’t shine as well as the brown. You were scowling, and I could only imagine my appearance. I hadn’t bothered to shave, and I hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt either – it was my day off.

“What do you want?” I ask, placing a hand on my hip, the picture of sass that I could be. I had rarely, if ever, directed it at you, however. You simply look up at me, your star burst lashes brushing the bottom of your eyebrows, and say,

“We need to talk.”

I snort, unable to contain myself. I don’t feel like myself, like I’m another Alex. Three choice words leave my mouth – fuck you, bitch – and I slam the door in your face, your shocked expression burned onto my retinas. I turn away without a second glance, not wanting to see your more refined expression of disgust, or anger, feeling dizzy – giddy on my own courage and abrupt decision making. A few slams on the door later and shouts of my name, and you leave. I watch you from the bathroom window, wiping at your face. My heart sinks, and my stomach drops, the reality hitting me all too hard all at once. You pause in your movements, and turn back towards the house. A quick scan and somehow your all – knowing brown eyes meet mine through the lace.

“I’m not coming back – screw you Alex!” You bellow, your voice reaching my ears about a second after the words leave your lips. You spin on your heel, and it’s the final punch. I step backwards and set the shower running, stripping and grabbing my razor from the sink. As soon as the water is warm enough I start scrubbing at my skin with soap, trying to get rid of the grime. I lather my ‘not – quite – a – beard – too – long – to – be – stubble’ and shave it off, scraping the long hair out of the razor with the pad of my thumb.

Exhausted by the hectic, jerky movements I lean against the wall, letting the water trickle over my face. I didn’t have as much pressure as I thought running through the pipes. The water makes a gurgling sound as it goes through the drain – I’ve been meaning to clean it out but haven’t gotten around to it just yet. I spin the taps a few times so that more water comes through and rinse the sheen left from the soap off of myself; the actions are smoother, more relaxing in a way.

By the time I finally leave the shower, its ten o’clock – you left over an hour ago. It’s no longer sunny outside, and as I close the glass door behind me I once again hesitate. I need to re-evaluate, to find out where my emotions truly stand with you, and how far I’m willing to go for my heart.

But all I can picture is you – you in your essence. Your natural coloured hair from a few months ago, the erotic expression on your face from many nights spent alone, all of your curves, from hips to chest and even the delicate concave arc of your spine. Your spindly fingers that are adept at dealing out cards and your powers of persuasion. Your laugh in summer, and the way your tanned skin slowly fades in winter. The passion you pour into singing and the way you stretch out your vowels when you talk.

My stomach clenches as butterflies fill the space – not quite the answer I was looking for but I’ll take it. It’s better than nothing after all. By the time I come to a conclusion – yes, you are worth the pain you’ve put me through because I’m a lovesick fool, I’ve dried off completely, no need for the aid of a towel. I grab one anyway – force of habit – and run it over my body once. I dress in clean clothes, fresh from my drawers, and dig around under my bed looking for my shoes.

I set off at a brisk pace down the street to your house. I’m hoping the fresh air will do me some good – my decision has nothing to do with the fact that I have no gas in my car either. The air feels heavy, and thick clouds are starting to accumulate in the sky.

I knock on your door a good forty five minutes later. No memories come to mind, only here, only right now – it’s all that matters. You don’t answer – I’m not sure you’re even home. A few specks of rain start to fall and I scowl. I walk next door and ask if they know where you are – you’ve lived in the same house for several years and they know you almost embarrassingly too well; same goes for me. When the older woman who lives there answers and the smile drops off her face I know that something’s wrong. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” The words spill from my lips easily, too easily. She smiles and simply points up at the sky.

“Bought a plane ticket this morning, came around and asked me to keep the mail under control, then left. I figured you’d be around asking questions.”

I nod mutely. You hate flying – so much so that you’d rather swim across the ocean to get to your desired destination. The rain’s only falling harder now, the rhythmic pitter patter turning into splashes and drumming on the roof.

“Right.”

“Do you want to come inside, dear, out of the rain?” She makes a small gesture as though to invite me inside. I shake my head and bid her goodbye.

I still remember the time you told me you hated planes. It hurts to know that you’d take one, and that I might have been part of the reason to make you. My clothes are drenched by the time I get back home, but I’m okay with it. I dial your number from the home phone and reaching your voice mail is enough to set me over the edge.

“Jenna, please be okay.”