Black Boxes

Al – not Alva – fucking never Alva, because what the hell was his mother thinking when she named him? – opens the door in a daze; he’s spent most of his week like that in fact. Half there, half not blinking into consciousness under a warm mass of flesh or crouched over one. But this time, his eyes still slightly drooping, he comes into focus in front of a door. He’s not sure how his subconscious is doing it, because he’s pretty fucking sure he never heard a doorbell, but the last week and a half even without him really knowing it – he’s always been where he’s needed to be. Break-up’s shouldn’t turn you into mindless zombies but his did, so maybe his mother was onto something with that hole “you’re not like other boys” thing. Though maybe she was just talking about how much he loved eating paste when he was younger…

Twisting the knob is more effort than he remembers (the weird turning of his wrist that doesn’t hurt but feels like it should) and the sun is too bright when he peeks his head out of the whole he created. The greetings come even slower than his dazed door opening because fuck did the sun blind him?

He kinda just stands there, soaking in his new found blindness, but soon the yellow haze fades and color and shapes come back. When he can see again and everything isn’t just yellow blurs it’s the last person he expected to see standing on his porch because the last time he saw her was last week when said door was slammed in her face and he was shouting “GTFO” loudly with – and it was probably just dirt or something making them water – tears streaming down his face. Their break-up is fresh and painful and the only thing that comes to his mind when he looks at the women before him is: damn, she’s still smiling that smile.

He can take being cheated on twice or thrice – because urges, he may be brash and a little dumb, but he understands those – but twice each week, the same madding mix of smells clinging to her body as she climbs into bed with him… He knows dating whores isn’t for everybody, but fucking around so noticeably behind his back is a worse break-up line then “it’s not you, it’s me.” Though it wasn’t really the fucking around that bothered him – it was that fucking smile. The one she always wore when she stumbled home at 12am – the huge grin screaming how happy she was. How happy someone who wasn’t him made her.

“What?” His voice comes out harsh and snappy, like he’s one second away from forgetting childhood teachings about not hitting girls, and he doesn’t really care that she starts frowning as he just glares at her from his little hole. Nothing’s aloud to break his heart but some weird disease or a heart-attack.

“I… I didn’t – I just wanted to… I’m sorry.” She sounds like fucking nails on a chalkboard, and that cute way she bites her lip when nervous is more annoying now – he’s told her this before but: you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full – you just come out sounding fucking stupid, like she was now.

Al has never said sorry after breaking-up with anyone. Not because he was being righteous or didn’t care, but what the fuck was sorry going to do? Reverse time and stop her from cheating or even accepting to date him in the first place? He never liked the word sorry, it felt like meaninglessly air when he said it, and it sounded like an excuse whenever he heard it.

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying is fine, but as he looks at the impossibly tiny women standing before him, hands twisted harshly in the skirt of her blue dress, eyes downcast and lips bruised from all the biting – maybe it’s just lingering affection that make him open his stupid mouth and say the next words;

“I’m fucking fine. We’re fine. Just go be fucking happy.”