I wake to muffled sounds coming from our bedroom. At least it used to be our bedroom. Last night I slept on the couch. Except that this is more of a loveseat than a couch. The morning air finds me groggy and sore from the Benadryl taken the evening before. Normally I would have been snuggled safely beside him; trapped under a blanket of eternal bliss. Things are different now. No longer are we "together." My situation had become precarious. As a result I now had no idea what to do. Sooner or later one of us was going to have to move out. Staring at the ceiling I have the sneaking suspicion that it would be me.
I don't know quite when or how it happened. I suspect it all started with those few simple words. Three weeks ago, in heated conversation, they were uttered. Everything had been different since then. Simple greetings, car rides, even the quiet after sex had changed ambiance. About two weeks ago the sex stopped altogether. The arguments had been getting worse and worse. Eventually between words of malice and throwing wine bottles, we silently agreed that I would sleep on the couch. Yes, things are different all right.
My mind is suddenly jerked to alertness. The sounds from the bedroom are now getting louder. The pitch and tone hinted that he was not alone. I had been asleep when he got home. Evidently, he'd found someone at wherever he had been. The emotion of our breakup is still too fresh for me to be bitter. There is only dejected sadness. Like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy being tortured to death, by the sounds coming loudly from the bedroom.
Deciding it would be best not to be here awake, when he emerged, I leave the apartment. Too many things could have gone wrong had I seen him sweaty, heaving and aloof. Not that it's any of my business anymore. That much was made clear to me already. I pull my jacket tight against the wind. Not knowing how long he and his mystery would be, I simply start to walk. My thoughts are with the wind as snow is kicked up in swirling gusts.
Four hours and countless cigarettes later I find myself at the door of the apartment. I quietly slip in. Everything is silent and the apartment is empty. My attention is drawn to a stack of boxes piled in a corner. The shelves are bare of books and pictures. The various oddities of two lives melted into one are now gone. My life is now packed away in boxes shielded from my existence. Amidst the pile of memories and things, an envelope sits. It is simple, with the word "open" scrawled across the face.
The instructions of the letter outline my life for the next few hours. I am to vacate the apartment, leave my key, and take care of myself. I knew that this would eventually come, but I had been unwilling to accept it. Now reality forces me to accept it. There are no second chances. There is only the promise or failure of the future. Whichever it may be, the fact remains that I am again without a home. Not homeless in the sense that I would have no place to live. I would always have a place to live. However a home is more than walls, ceilings and a few windows.
It took seven trips downstairs to load all the boxes into my car. Now, sitting on my heels in the living room; I reread the note he left me. Suddenly I feel as empty as the shelves that once held my books. I go to the kitchen and dig out paper and a pen. The note I leave on his pillow contains these few simple words, "I'm sorry." In the soft light of what once was our apartment, I take a last look around. Then slipping out the door, I pull it shut behind me, like the closing of a great book. xx
