Apricity
home
I took a deep inhale as I unlocked the door to my condo and pushed it aside. Trailing my eyes around the dim-lit entry hallway, the weight that had been a constant on my shoulders for the last four months worsened. Keeping my back straight suddenly felt like an undoable task. My heart ached, my throat was dry, and my muscles detached from my bones. I was weak. I was tired.
I was tired of feeling this way every time I came home to Philadelphia. There was a time where I would come home and kneel down to wrap my arms around our dog. After a minute of petting him, I would see her, leaning against the wall in a pair of baggy sweats and a tank top that fit perfectly on her body. The lighting in the hallway would always hit her in the most perfect way. Her chest would always shimmer in the light, her eyes would always be the brightest under those fluorescents.
Exhaling slowly, I pushed my duffle bag further down the hallway until it was leaning against the back of the couch. Blinking hard, memories of her lying on the couch late at night flooded my brain. She would always fall asleep with my jersey on, her long hair wrapped in a messy bun, a light blanket from the minor league teams I used to play on covering her long, thin, legs.
“Fuck,” I breathed as I felt the ache in my chest start to worsen. Over the last four months, I had done my best to fill the void. I tried to date, I tried sleeping around, I even tried drinking, but nothing would make me forget her. Nothing in the world would make me forget the way her soft fingers would trail down my forearm. Nothing would make me forget the way her lips felt against my neck. Nothing would make me forget the way she looked at me when she was proud of me. Nothing would make me forget the way she was always there for me, no matter what was wrong, no matter what time, no matter how bad I fucked up the previous day.
I wanted to throw things. I wanted to pound my fist through the grey walls around me. I needed something to give me a momentary break from her. I needed something to clear my mind, if only for a minute. She was suffocating. She was hundreds of miles away, but I could still feel her.
I could still feel her hand hit my cheek. The sting from the contact still flared up through my nerves every now and again. The memory still made my hands and knees shake. I remember how fast I dropped to the ground, how quickly I tears rushed to my eyes.
I still felt the guilt.
”After everything, Claude, after six years?”
The sudden urge to throw up ran through my body. For a split second, I thought about running to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet, but I knew nothing would come out. I hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours, and I had no desire to force myself to spew out stomach bile so late at night. The sickness would pass just like everything else would. After two glasses of whisky and an eleven hour night of sleep, all of this would fade to the low thump of a headache in the back of my head.
Quinn was everything to me. I would give up my world for her. She was the fire in my stomach, the steadiness of my hands and the sparkle in my eyes. She was the reason I wanted to go home, the reason I had the energy to work out. She was the wind beneath my wings, the constant source of encouragement when my game wasn’t going well.
She was everything, and without her, I was nothing.
She was the warmth of the sun on a cold winter’s day.
I haven’t felt warm since.
I was tired of feeling this way every time I came home to Philadelphia. There was a time where I would come home and kneel down to wrap my arms around our dog. After a minute of petting him, I would see her, leaning against the wall in a pair of baggy sweats and a tank top that fit perfectly on her body. The lighting in the hallway would always hit her in the most perfect way. Her chest would always shimmer in the light, her eyes would always be the brightest under those fluorescents.
Exhaling slowly, I pushed my duffle bag further down the hallway until it was leaning against the back of the couch. Blinking hard, memories of her lying on the couch late at night flooded my brain. She would always fall asleep with my jersey on, her long hair wrapped in a messy bun, a light blanket from the minor league teams I used to play on covering her long, thin, legs.
“Fuck,” I breathed as I felt the ache in my chest start to worsen. Over the last four months, I had done my best to fill the void. I tried to date, I tried sleeping around, I even tried drinking, but nothing would make me forget her. Nothing in the world would make me forget the way her soft fingers would trail down my forearm. Nothing would make me forget the way her lips felt against my neck. Nothing would make me forget the way she looked at me when she was proud of me. Nothing would make me forget the way she was always there for me, no matter what was wrong, no matter what time, no matter how bad I fucked up the previous day.
I wanted to throw things. I wanted to pound my fist through the grey walls around me. I needed something to give me a momentary break from her. I needed something to clear my mind, if only for a minute. She was suffocating. She was hundreds of miles away, but I could still feel her.
I could still feel her hand hit my cheek. The sting from the contact still flared up through my nerves every now and again. The memory still made my hands and knees shake. I remember how fast I dropped to the ground, how quickly I tears rushed to my eyes.
I still felt the guilt.
”After everything, Claude, after six years?”
The sudden urge to throw up ran through my body. For a split second, I thought about running to the bathroom to dry heave into the toilet, but I knew nothing would come out. I hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours, and I had no desire to force myself to spew out stomach bile so late at night. The sickness would pass just like everything else would. After two glasses of whisky and an eleven hour night of sleep, all of this would fade to the low thump of a headache in the back of my head.
Quinn was everything to me. I would give up my world for her. She was the fire in my stomach, the steadiness of my hands and the sparkle in my eyes. She was the reason I wanted to go home, the reason I had the energy to work out. She was the wind beneath my wings, the constant source of encouragement when my game wasn’t going well.
She was everything, and without her, I was nothing.
She was the warmth of the sun on a cold winter’s day.
I haven’t felt warm since.
♠ ♠ ♠
pilot