Thank You
2:35 AM
I miss him more than I like to admit and it's only been a week. I flew to my parents house on Saturday, cried Sunday night, though those tears weren't for him, and somehow I’m back home and it’s Saturday again. I stare at the ceiling. The only light comes from the glow of the streetlamps outside my window. It’s quiet. My body’s tired but my mind fights to stay awake, it's way of telling me I have more work to do, which is never good.
Every night is the same. I unplug my electronics and hide my clocks. I hate the harshness of red LED lights displaying digital numbers on TV control boxes and the flashing white beacon that emanates from closed laptops. And analogue clocks tick. They make me count, tick, one, tick, two, tick, three...keeping me up converting seconds to minutes, minutes to hours. The first time I told him about my routine he laughed and called me Captain Hook. I should have been angry, had it been anyone else I would have, but there was something about the way he said it with that smile. So, I let it go. That’s how I knew I was in for trouble. I don’t let things go, not that easy.
In the distance I hear someone hit their breaks hard, the screech of rubber on asphalt, a car alarm. No crash the driver must be okay. This was a normal Saturday night, thankfully luck was on the driver's side today. I can’t say others were so lucky. My eyes start to close but my thoughts multiply. Maybe lying on my side will make me more comfortable? I roll over. A dull pain radiates from my left ankle as it brushes my calf. I feel the tears. The doctor said the pain would subside in a week or so.
“You’re lucky it’s only a sprain, ” he said. Lucky wasn’t the word I’d use but that wasn’t his fault. Doctors are trained to fix physical wounds and this was more. The pain stops. I face the empty spot in bed where he used to lie and immediately regret my decision to turn over. Regret turns to sadness, sadness to anger. I wish I never met him. The thought scares me because I think I mean it.
From the moment we became ‘we’ I knew the relationship was a selfish one. He liked me for my novelty and I liked being wanted. So he stayed knowing he’d eventually leave and I stayed knowing it would hurt when he did. See, even in the beginning we were looking forward to the end, but it was the middle that made up for that. The middle when we were both so caught up in living that we didn’t leave room for anything else. That’s where the love was, at least, that’s where my love was, caught in those moments where I revealed everything. Thoughts of the things he knew about me, knows about me, are what keep me up on nights like this. Nights when it’s raining and the sound and smell of the tiny crystal droplets fill the air with something indescribable. I used to love the rain, especially at night, but he took that from me too.
He left in the rain, in the middle of the night when he thought I was asleep. I watched him get out of bed and head for the kitchen. I wanted to get up with him but something held me back. In waiting for him I fell asleep. When I woke the next morning there was a note on the bed, in the empty space that I now face, with the words THANK YOU written in familiar sloppy letters. I truly wish he’d never extended the courtesy. I would have overwhelmingly preferred that he never came home at all, that he left me for another girl, that we had a fight and he stormed out, but instead he left me with this. A note with a eight shitty written letters on it and an apartment full of his stuff which I started emptying that day, that’s how I sprained my ankle. I tripped carrying his boxes down the stairs to my car. My neighbor found me in a sprawled out on the stairway, too tired to get up, and drove me to the hospital where the doctor ensured a swift recovery.
And now here I am lying in the bed we shared, listening to the sound of the rain, staring at the empty space next to me, thinking of all the ways he fucked me over. And the saddest part is if asked me if I would do it over again if I had the chance, my answer would be a resounding yes.
Every night is the same. I unplug my electronics and hide my clocks. I hate the harshness of red LED lights displaying digital numbers on TV control boxes and the flashing white beacon that emanates from closed laptops. And analogue clocks tick. They make me count, tick, one, tick, two, tick, three...keeping me up converting seconds to minutes, minutes to hours. The first time I told him about my routine he laughed and called me Captain Hook. I should have been angry, had it been anyone else I would have, but there was something about the way he said it with that smile. So, I let it go. That’s how I knew I was in for trouble. I don’t let things go, not that easy.
In the distance I hear someone hit their breaks hard, the screech of rubber on asphalt, a car alarm. No crash the driver must be okay. This was a normal Saturday night, thankfully luck was on the driver's side today. I can’t say others were so lucky. My eyes start to close but my thoughts multiply. Maybe lying on my side will make me more comfortable? I roll over. A dull pain radiates from my left ankle as it brushes my calf. I feel the tears. The doctor said the pain would subside in a week or so.
“You’re lucky it’s only a sprain, ” he said. Lucky wasn’t the word I’d use but that wasn’t his fault. Doctors are trained to fix physical wounds and this was more. The pain stops. I face the empty spot in bed where he used to lie and immediately regret my decision to turn over. Regret turns to sadness, sadness to anger. I wish I never met him. The thought scares me because I think I mean it.
From the moment we became ‘we’ I knew the relationship was a selfish one. He liked me for my novelty and I liked being wanted. So he stayed knowing he’d eventually leave and I stayed knowing it would hurt when he did. See, even in the beginning we were looking forward to the end, but it was the middle that made up for that. The middle when we were both so caught up in living that we didn’t leave room for anything else. That’s where the love was, at least, that’s where my love was, caught in those moments where I revealed everything. Thoughts of the things he knew about me, knows about me, are what keep me up on nights like this. Nights when it’s raining and the sound and smell of the tiny crystal droplets fill the air with something indescribable. I used to love the rain, especially at night, but he took that from me too.
He left in the rain, in the middle of the night when he thought I was asleep. I watched him get out of bed and head for the kitchen. I wanted to get up with him but something held me back. In waiting for him I fell asleep. When I woke the next morning there was a note on the bed, in the empty space that I now face, with the words THANK YOU written in familiar sloppy letters. I truly wish he’d never extended the courtesy. I would have overwhelmingly preferred that he never came home at all, that he left me for another girl, that we had a fight and he stormed out, but instead he left me with this. A note with a eight shitty written letters on it and an apartment full of his stuff which I started emptying that day, that’s how I sprained my ankle. I tripped carrying his boxes down the stairs to my car. My neighbor found me in a sprawled out on the stairway, too tired to get up, and drove me to the hospital where the doctor ensured a swift recovery.
And now here I am lying in the bed we shared, listening to the sound of the rain, staring at the empty space next to me, thinking of all the ways he fucked me over. And the saddest part is if asked me if I would do it over again if I had the chance, my answer would be a resounding yes.