Black Boxes

Al knows everyone has bad habits, but there’s something in him that makes him think that his habits aren't just bad – they’re detrimental. Maybe it’s the whore in him – not the whory part of him that sleeps around, but the one that seeks attention like a drug that makes him view even his bad parts as better than others. Al doesn’t have anything as worrying as a God complex, but he likes control and he’s not shy about letting people know that. He also likes picking at scabs – ripping off the new skin and viewing the bloody pink flesh underneath.

“I boxed up some of your things.” There he went again – picking at scabs. The woman before him looks hesitant to accept the invitation, and Al can understand. He hates this house, the memories are everywhere and even if they aren’t together anymore she haunts him. Her ghost roams the halls and climbs into bed with him at night. He’s thought about moving but the house isn’t his to sell. It was a gift, and Al knows there’s a certain etiquette that frowns upon the selling of gifts; especially when the gift giver is dead.

“I…”

Al knows what if feels like for the words to die on your lips. He wants to help, but he knows anything that leaves his mouth has a fifty percent chance of coming out bitter and harsh, like overripe lemons squeezed right into your eyes. They don’t need any more pain so he keeps his mouth shut and leaves everything in her hands. That’s another bad habit he has after all – letting others take responsibility.



He wonders if this is what love coming to an end feels like – handing someone a box of things they brought into your life with cold indifference. Waiting for them to wrench it out of your hands and leave for good because all you can do after everything is over is wait. Wait for the heartbreak to disappear, wait to get over them, wait to be okay again, wait for time to pass, wait for someone else to come into your life so you can have a reason to wait all over again.

“It wasn’t your profession,” she’s griping the other end of the box now, and suddenly the cardboard feels like the only thing holding them together. “I was okay with it – or least I thought I was, and it really was a mistake at first, cheating on you, but he says my name in his sleep.” Al’s eyebrow raises, he knew his accidentally moaning of a client’s name in his sleep is something that’s always bothered her, but he doesn’t really get how much until right now.

“I never wanted to hurt you – I…I –” It almost hurts how desperate she sounds as she looks up at him with frantic eyes. Al knows she wants him to know desperately that this wasn’t her fault – though she wants him to know it’s not his fault either, so they’re put at a standstill. With no one to blame there’s no way to make this a clean break, so instead they’re just standing there holding onto one edge of the box each. Both trying to let go, both trying to find a way to give the other a way out. “I…you – we –” Al doesn’t think he can take much more of this one women grasping at straws act. He’s doesn’t actually know what to do to put everything to an end neatly, but he has a hunch so he follows it because Alva has always been one who followed his gut.

“Goodbye, Lucette.” He lets go of the box.