Seven

  1. *** This short story was inspired by a writing prompt at my group this past week, which was “Talk about the days of the week as if they were people.” Anyway, this is what I came up with. I may go back and edit it, but it’s what I have now. Enjoy. 🙂

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Monday was a straight-laced fellow, always waking up at exactly 5am sharp and hitting the treadmill at 5:15am. After this, he went on to make his breakfast by 5:45am, the menu for which never varied – scrambled eggs, toast, an apple and one cup of coffee.

Today his routine commenced like normal, and in his meticulously pressed suit and Italian shoes he briskly made his way out of the elevator in a quick gait to his office. He firmly believed in moving quickly and with purpose, even though he wasn’t required to be there at any particular time. He felt moving fast was productive, efficient, and therefore would lead to success.

As he glanced down at his watch, an expensive and reliable Schaffhausen he had purchased during a business trip to Switzerland, he was reeled by the impact of something hard slamming into his forehead, followed by the sensation of something hot and wet on his leg.

“Oh no,” Tuesday apologized. “I’m so sorry, man…”

Monday looked up at him in disdain, holding his hand over the growing lump on his head.

“Did you not see me?” he seethed at Tuesday, annoyed that his pants would now have to go to the dry cleaner’s, an interruption in his carefully structured routine.

“Hey look, I’ll pay for the cleaning bill,” Tuesday offered, desperately trying to make amends for this unfortunate misstep. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, too, huh?” The middle child of seven children, Tuesday was a born mediator, and having any sort of bad blood between himself and another person was something he feared most.

Monday flashed Tuesday a scornful look and without a word marched down to his office and slammed the door, leaving Tuesday with a pit in his stomach that would last the rest of the day.

The work day seemed like an eternity, so when Tuesday finally pulled into the driveway of his three bedroom suburban split level he was elated to see his wife’s car already in the driveway, indicating that she was home early from her shift at the hospital. Wednesday was an RN, and there were times when Tuesday wouldn’t see her until very late. Those nights, by the time she walked through the door she was too exhausted to engage in any sort of meaningful conversation.

He turned his key into the lock and pushed the handle, and he was instantly greeted by the most intoxicating smell. He smiled wide, knowing exactly what was happening – she was making tacos and margaritas. His favorite.

God I love this woman, he thought.

He strolled to the kitchen and rounded the corner, expecting to see his lovely wife chopping vegetables or sauteing meat. His smile immediately vanished, however, when he came face-to-face with his slovenly, unemployed brother Thursday.

“What are you doing here?!” he demanded, with just a touch more annoyance in his voice than he anticipated.

“Oh, I invited him!” Wednesday cheerfully chimed in, chopping cilantro at the kitchen island. Tuesday turned to her with a shocked, desperate expression, wordlessly protesting his brother’s invasion of their normally serene home. Thursday, having been a shameless mooch for pretty much his entire adult life, artfully feigned obliviousness as he opened the refrigerator door in search of another beer.

“How’ve you been, little brother?” Thursday asked in a friendly tone as he popped the cap of a bottle of Tuesday’s Burning River Pale Ale and took a long swig.

“Been better,” Tuesday muttered, resentfully glowering at his wife for allowing his brother to barge in on their taco night. Wednesday ignored this. She knew how Tuesday felt about Thursday, yet she was far too compassionate to turn him away. Tonight he had appeared especially downtrodden, so one taco night wouldn’t kill Tuesday.

Thursday ignored his younger brother’s glare and frowned at the cracked screen of his iPhone 5. He had texted Friday and Saturday over two hours before with no response, wondering what his childhood best friends were doing.

Friday glanced down at his brand new Samsung Note to read the flashing message.

“Moda. 9pm. Remember, DON’T TELL THURSDAY”

Friday sighed as he sipped his post-workday scotch. He felt a pang of guilt for conspiring with Saturday to go out without Thursday, but lately the deadbeat mooch act had been getting on his nerves, and Saturday’s as well. When Thursday would conveniently forget his wallet or get so intoxicated that he would leave without paying his tab, Friday and Saturday would take turns footing the bill for their childhood friend, at times resulting in a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

But tonight, they decided that they wanted a night out without having to carry a third person, or have their game thwarted by Thursday’s abhorrent lack of social skills.

No. Tonight, they had decided, belonged to the gentlemen.

Friday’s candy apple red Audi R8 Spyder convertible slowed to a steady roll before he stopped right in front of the club, his perfectly sculpted hair intact thanks to the obscene amounts of product he used to get his perfect coif. He pushed open the car door and his Italian leather shoes touched down on the pavement, his 6’5 frame unfolding out of his fully loaded sports car. His slate grey shirt and black slacks went well with his dark complexion and muscular physique, making the heads of many attractive women waiting outside turn and take notice.

The valet, who couldn’t have been more than 22 stared at Friday with awe and respect, partially wishing he were Friday, but also in carefully muted excitement at being the one who got to park this fine piece of machinery. Friday flashed a cocky grin and tossed him the keys, and in a flowing gesture that he had made hundreds of times before stuffed a $100 bill in the kid’s shirt pocket.

“No joy-riding,” he pointed at the kid with feigned sternness. He turned to the crowd of people waiting outside, noticing the more beautiful of the women. He had a good feeling about tonight.

He then heard a loud bass thumping behind him, so strong that the vibrations went up through his foot to his calf. He turned around to see Saturday roll up in his red 1967 Cadillac Convertible, a car he only drove if A.) there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and B.) Thursday wasn’t around to puke in it.

Saturday smiled wide at his friend as he tossed the keys to the other valet kid and stuffed a wad of money in his hand. His sandy blonde hair spiked and stylishly disheveled, he looked like a young Robert Redford.

“Yeah, let’s do this thing!” he exclaimed as he shook his friend’s hand, giving him a masculine one-armed hug in the process. They nodded to the bouncers, who wordlessly unhooked the ropes to let them by, and they strolled into the thumping, vibrant room.

The two toasted each other over a couple of craft beers as they looked around the crowd, enjoying not worrying about what trouble their friend might be getting into. An attractive redhead in a silver dress made her way over to their corner and zeroed in on Friday, which Saturday took as his cue to disappear into the crowd, clumsily but happily moving to the house music.

In his enthusiastic gyrations, his arm somehow careened into the face of the most gorgeous brunette he had ever seen in his life just as she was taking a sip of her martini.

“Oh no…” he stammered, horrified with himself. “I…I am so sorry. Are you okay?” The martini had spilled down the length of her short, strapless, fire engine red dress. It looked expensive. Saturday braced himself for a verbal lashing.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she graciously assured him, calmly patting the new stain on her red dress with her cocktail napkin.

“Here, I’ll get you another…what were you having?”

“Dirty martini,” she replied. “Extra dirty.

He was relieved that she didn’t seem at all angry, but also couldn’t help but be intrigued by her. She seemed so serene, so calm.

In what seemed like an eternity to him, he returned with her drink, which she gently took from his hand and smiled.

“So,” she started, now ignoring the stain on her dress and instead studying him with her large brown eyes. She found him attractive in an adorable, boyish way, even if her dress was completely ruined. “What’s your name?”

“Saturday.” He answered. “And you?”

“Sunday,” she smiled back at him, her lips perfectly matching the shade of her dress.

“What brings you to this place?” Saturday wondered, scrambling to find some sort of conversation starter and his brain coming up short.

“I had to get out of the house,” she replied, tossing her long, shiny black hair over her shoulder. “It’s boring there.”

Saturday shrugged and nodded, but still had nothing to add.

THINK GODDAMNIT. Don’t let her walk away!

“It would probably be more fun if you were there.” she added after a long pause, her wide dark eyes gazing into his, giving him a flirty half smile. He once again had no words. He could only nod his head follow her when she took his hand and led him out of the club. He glanced over at Friday, who was now smoothly chatting up two gorgeous women.

Sorry Friday. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.

He followed her through the door of her upscale condo. The inside was spotless, not a single picture or piece of furniture out of place. He made a mental note to get the name of her housekeeper.

However, the housekeeper quickly took the furthest spot in the back of his mind when he watched this beautiful woman nonchalantly peel her dress off of her body to reveal matching red underwear, kick the martini-mared dress over to a spot on the floor then saunter down a narrow corridor.

He stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.

“Are you coming?” he heard her velvety, soothing voice call. Shaking his head in disbelief, his feet quickly shuffled toward the direction of her voice.

He opened his eyes the next morning to Sunday’s beautiful, sleeping face. Sleeping on her side, her jet black hair fell across her cheek, framing her full, pillowy lips. Her olive skin contrasted with the stark white blanket.

My God. She’s even more beautiful in the morning, he thought.

He raised a hand to gently brush her hair back, and her long lashes fluttered. Her dark eyes opened to gaze into his sky blue ones.

“Hi.” he said, unable to take his eyes off of her.

“Hi.” She smiled at him, then leaned in to kiss him. He reached for her, but she instead pulled away and stood up, still completely naked, in a calm search for clothing.

“Is everything okay?” Saturday asked, wishing she’d crawl back into bed with him.

“Oh, everything is fine,” she assured him. “we just have to go to breakfast before my husband comes home.”

Panic flushed over Saturday. HUSBAND?

“Your what?” he asked incredulously.

“My husband, Monday.” she calmly answered him. “So we need to leave and enjoy the day before he gets back.”

“You didn’t tell me you were married!!” Saturday protested, crushed.

“Of course I didn’t.” she retorted. “But he always ruins my fun whenever he comes home.”

Baffled at this betrayal, Saturday rolled out of the bed, still covering himself with the blanket, and commenced a frenzied search for his pants.

 

 

 

Writing On The Wall

October 2015

He’s still at the bar.
I know he’ll be home soon, but lately he’s been frequenting more and more.
I know there’s a bartender he likes.
He looks at her with a look.
The way he used to look at me.
He doesn’t look at me like that anymore.
Lately he’s told me as such.
But when he gets home he’ll smile at me expecting dinner
Because that’s the only good I am to him now.
And I have to cook for him, because if I don’t he becomes shitty.
So I cook dinner for him.
For a man who just a couple weeks ago told me straight to my face that he

No longer loves me.
At least, “Not like he used to.”
But he really didn’t need to tell me that.
I already knew.
It was cruel of him to say.
But he figures, “Ah well, it’s been six years. Maybe we should try to work it out.”
Like it’s nothing.
So day after day, night after night, I wake up next to this man.
Attempt to be affectionate.
Attempt to do nice things for him.
Cook for him.
Being careful to clean up after myself so as to not trigger another “talk”.
Then I go to bed next to him.
We sleep, close to each other yet miles away.
Everyday I’m unsure of my immediate future.
Do I have to start packing?
Will I have to live with my mother?
Dear God.
This sucks.

He’s home now. So I’m expected to make dinner.

Of course. That’s what I’m here for.

Solitude

March 2016

I took this picture when the gravity of everything finally sunk in, the height of my grieving. At the time, I was technically homeless, housesitting for my friend while he was away in Asia. I had no real solid foundation to which I could root myself, my entire life was perpetually “up in the air”.

This was a moment when I felt as if I didn’t have a friend in the world; my phone, Skype, email and Facebook Messenger void of signs that anyone cared about my existence.

Hell, I didn’t even get to have my dog.

I wanted this moment documented. I wanted something I could look back on so I could promise myself that I would never feel this way ever again. A reminder that this was the lowest I was going to get.

But then, there was another side to this coin.

2016 had begun in the wake of loss. Part of what I lost through that shitstorm was my fear. What did I have to be afraid of, after all? My fear of the unknown – unknown places, an unknown future – just seemed silly at this point. Obviously, judging by what I had been through, the future is uncertain no matter how solid you think things are.

So yeah, Germany? Bring it on.

Because really, thats the only thought that kept me going.

What About Your Friends?

November 24, 2015

One morning I groggily trudged down the stairs to make my morning breakfast of an omelette and oatmeal. I sat down at the dining room table, and that’s when I noticed that there were a pile of boxes next to me that hadn’t been there before. Just glancing at the top box, I could see my copies of Michael Symon’s “Five Ingredients” and Aaron Sanchez’s “Simple Food, Big Flavor” peeking out of the not-very-closed flap.

John, while I was working and staying away in the spirit of avoidance and to digest this awful situation, had been packing my things for me.

Uh-uh. No.

My fury steadily rose as I looked down at these haphazardly packed boxes of my belongings.

How dare he do this without so much as a discussion?

How dare he pack MY stuff behind my back?

And doing a halfassed, shit job of it in the process?

The anger heaved against my sternum as if it were trying to break free to go upstairs and kick his ass.

I made myself calm down into a moderately civil state and waited until he was out of the shower. He came downstairs and settled into his usual nook on the couch (I swear, there should have been a permanent imprint of his ass on that cushion. Thank God it wasn’t memory foam). I slowly walked over to him, careful to keep my temper in check.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi!” he said, smiling.

I’ll smack that smile right off your face, you prick.

Easy, Laura.

“Don’t do that.” I blurted out, pointing to the pile of boxes. I mean, Jesus. Aside from this being a total dick move, how was I supposed to find anything?

“Do what?” he asked, seeming confused. But coming from the man with the master poker face I couldn’t tell whether or not he was just playing dumb.

I cleared things up and told him – clearer and less politely this time – to stop packing my shit. I added that he was going to have to be patient.

“I have been,” he responded. “But it’s been over two weeks now. This has gone on long enough. We both have to get on with our lives.”

I had no words. I just stood there staring at him in disbelief. Did he seriously think that I could just magically pack up 6 years worth of shit and be gone in two weeks?

“You know,” I started, now trying very hard not to lose it. “this may come as a shock to you, but this isn’t exactly easy for me.”

“I know that.” he coldly acknowledged with an expression telling me that he also didn’t care.

“YOU were the one who wanted this, not me!” I felt my voice grow louder and start to crack with the threat of tears. At this point, I stopped caring about being calm. I was baffled at how could he be this horrible to me, a woman he had spent 6 years of his life with. He was treating me like I had been the one who was leaving him for some insipid bimbo from work.

“I know that too.” He nodded again with the same indifferent expression.

WELL THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

I knew I had to maintain a modicum of cool if I didn’t want to see this escalate into an all out War of The Roses shitshow of insults and destroyed property. But I was furious.

“Well don’t you worry.” I mockingly assured, eyes narrowed in contempt, my vexation bleeding through my voice in spite of my vow for civility. “I’ll be out of your life as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” he nodded and agreed as if I had told him I was going to the grocery store.

Douchebag. Fuck him.

I know I didn’t deserve this treatment. What had I done, after all? Nothing, that’s what. It was his idea to buy this house, his idea for us to live together and merge all of our stuff together like Ozzy and fucking Harriett. Hell, it was him who had to practically drag me kicking and screaming out of the adorable, cheap little Lakewood apartment I loved where I happily (and stubbornly) enjoyed my independence a good two years into our relationship.

But I also know that if I start sinking to his level and getting nasty, this will go downhill to places I really didn’t need it to go at this point in time. For my sake, and possibly his.

Later, he came home and again took that same place on the couch, this time eating a bowl of the wretched canned soup he had been eating in lieu of my home cooking. I smirked at this thought, knowing he will never have so much as a bite of his favorite dishes of mine ever again. My pulled pork and pho were forever gone to him, he’d now have to suffer with his preservative-laden Campbell’s Can-O-Crap.

Heh.

Eat shit.

Literally.

I approached him again.

“I’m sorry for getting angry before.” I apologized, although I knew I had every right to be angry.

“It’s okay,” he accepted. “I was only trying to help.”

Textbook John. Too passive to admit to me that he was trying to send me a glaring signal to get the hell out of his house, he takes the innocent tone of “trying to help”. To keep things civil I played along.

“I know.” I responded. “But you know this isn’t easy for me.”

“I know that,” he acknowledged.

You just don’t care

Without another word, as speaking to him would clearly lead nowhere, I climbed the stairs back up to my room. I had a very-much-needed Taco Tuesday date at Barrio with my gal pal since sixth grade, Tam.

We had far too many chips and tacos, and as you can imagine the tequilla flowed as my longtime friend manned her damage control post by keeping the both of us drunk, happy and tearing my unworthy ex a new one.

She came to the decision that we needed to make up a really, really bad nickname for John. The last time I had done something like that I was about 10 years younger and the name sounded more like a spasm of Tourette’s. But the thought of it made me feel better, and so did Tam’s enthusiastic contempt for the man who had hurt her friend.

Maybe I’m luckier than I thought.

Afterwards, because we were drunk and my friend’s chocolate shop was only a block away, we decided that it was imperative that we stop in for a visit. As I was hoping, Paul was working, mixing brownie batter as we walked in. It was good to see him, but when he asked how I was doing Tam wasted no time telling him her opinion of John and what should be done to his genitals. I could tell this made him squirm a little. He was clearly uncomfortable with my situation and even made the subtle point of reminding me that he became friends with us both at the same time.

Either Tam didn’t notice his discomfort or didn’t care, because she continued to go on in detail about how hard she wanted to punch John in the face and exactly how many times.

Seriously one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

She went on ranting, and I watched her, smiling wide with gratitude. This wonderful person had my back, and if the tables were turned I’d totally have hers.

We collected our chocolates, said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. When I eventually got home, the tone she had set for the night almost acted as a force field against the heaviness that now permeated this house. Maybe it was my mood, maybe it was the margaritas, but I felt better than I had in weeks.
I brushed my teeth, crawled into bed and fell asleep watching old episodes of Sex In The City.

I think I’m going to be okay.

Germany – Take 1: Hamburg

August 9th, 2016

 Two months premature to my original plan, my plane landed in Hamburg Flughafen. Even though leaving that much earlier to be with a man I had never actually met was an enormous risk, I was excited for what the future held. Also terrified, anxious to the point of nausea, and not to mention harboring more than a shred of annoyance at the smarmy American douche seated in front of me. He was the typical asshole caricature one would encounter on any flight: staying reclined the entire time, obnoxiously making out with his out-of-his-league girlfriend 6 inches from my face, and rude to the flight staff while making inappropriate comments about the “sexiness” of their Icelandic accents.

Gross.

I thought about actually using the barf bag tucked into the back of his seat, both to ease my nerves and to make the two of them feel just as repulsed as I was. The thought made me feel a little better. But I had spent too long primping and carefully applying my makeup in the minuscule airplane restroom to ruin it.

Besides, by the time I stepped off the plane neither the gross man nor his bimbo girlfriend mattered; I had my whole new life ahead of me. After living through a year of sadness, what awaited me on the other side of that gate represented a hope for happiness and love. Despite wearing three inch heels, I practically ran to collect my luggage as they clacked along on the shiny tile floor.

Is my hair okay? 

Maybe I should touch up my lip gloss.

No time, Laura. Just go!

I wrestled an airport-issue dolly from the rack and made my way over to the luggage carousel, which seemed to take an eternity to add my bags to the rotation. Twenty excruciating minutes later my bike, three suitcases and my carry-on bag were hurriedly piled onto my luggage cart. Smiling in excitement and shaking with nerves, I made my way over to the exit.

He’s on the other side of that door.

Just a few more steps.

My enthusiastic gait was interrupted by a friendly German officer asking to see my passport. He fired off the standard questions; Where was I from? Have I been to Germany before? Why was I there? Was I carrying more than 10,000EUR in cash? He stared at my passport in silence for a long minute, which made me a nervous. Immediately my paranoia took center stage in my brain.

Does he suspect that I’m trying to move here? Will they force me onto the next flight back like they do to people on those border patrol shows?

After 11 hours of traveling, my nerves were just too shot for me to be rational.

He handed my passport back to me and gave me a nod of approval.

“You’re making my job too boring!” He joked in his deep German accent, and I laughed with relief. A herd of tourists brushed past us just then, collectively singing a song in some other language. We exchanged glances and shrugged.

He then directed me to the other exit door leading to the receiving area so to bypass the slow-moving chorus. Suddenly, this overwhelming jolt of excitement quaked through my veins as I remembered that Matthew was waiting for me on the other side of that door. I couldn’t have pushed my mountain of luggage through that exit fast enough. Craning my neck in all directions looking for him, I scanned the faces of people awaiting the arriving passengers. Some of them were smiling and holding flowers and balloons while others stood there expressionless, displaying names scrawled on paper. I didn’t see him, though. I had never seen him in person, but after months of Skyping and exchanging photos I felt I could easily pick the real life version of him out of a crowd. But the more faces I saw, the more of them weren’t his.

 Where is he?

 Maybe I can’t see him because he’s shorter than he let on?

 What if he’s really short? Like, a midget?

 Is he really a midget?

 Stop it, Laura.

My thoughts then wandered to more realistic worries.

 Did he change his mind?

 Oh God. I hope he didn’t change his mind.
The rickety cart, piled high with my packed-up life, wobbled and groaned as I fought to navigate it. The worn wheels petulantly refused to be guided in the direction I needed them to go, at times just stopping in mid-roll as if in protest to the hefty amplitude of shit I chose to bring with me to this country. I know I had packed too much. The $150 overage charge from the airline had made me well aware of this fact. But after that, a long flight and months of waiting for this moment I wasn’t about to take any shit from a goddamn buggy. Wrestling and negotiating with each push, I somehow managed to steer this rolling episode of “Hoarders: Buried Alive” over to the other side of the gate. I continued my search and skimmed the gaggle of people waiting for their loved ones.

And there he was. Even though he had his back to me I recognized him immediately. His broad-shouldered, 6’4 frame towered over the crowd, watching the other door in search of me.

Definitely not a midget.

 And no, Laura, he didn’t change his mind.

I smiled and silently laughed at my ridiculousness.

After all this time, effort and baggage wrangling I wanted to bound over to him and throw my arms around his neck in elation. But instead, I had a playful thought. I wanted to see if he’d recognize me. If I just casually stood next to him not saying a word, how long would it take? His back still to me, I attempted to slowly creep forward, thinking I would somehow manage to sneak up on him while dragging this enormous screeching monstrosity along with me.

I got within about 5 feet of him when he turned around. Our eyes met and he smiled wide, moving toward me with his long arms outstretched. He was just as adorably boyish in person, with his smiling dimples more pronounced and his eyes just a slightly greener shade of brown than his pictures had let on. He had a sort of humility about him that hadn’t translated across our Skype chats, which I found instantly endearing. He kissed me on the cheek and pulled me into his embrace, where we stayed for a long time. His hug was warm and genuine, the kind I could just sink into and never want to let go.

He helped me navigate the dolly over to the taxi stand, and as I took those first steps into my long-sought new life my heart soared. This new place, a blank canvas, was waiting. I could barely contain my curiosity as to what the future would bring.

The End and The Beginning

November 7, 2015

The end loomed in the air like an ominous storm cloud as I kept busy cooking dinner in the kitchen. I worked carefully, making sure to perfect what I was making in order to pacify him, possibly to change his mind about me and keep him from saying what I feared most. During dinner, we ate in silence at the dining room table as he played games on his iPad. The silence had become so normal, but tonight it made me anxious. Was he really talking to her? I felt a pang in my heart at this thought, thinking how disrespectful it would be to be eating the food I so carefully prepared for him while chatting with his…whatever the hell she was. Afterward, I cleared the table, washed the dishes and John took his place on the couch, slumping there with an exaggerated look of melancholy. This was his thing, the look he would always use to coax me into asking him what was wrong.

But I wasn’t biting. Rather than inquiring I avoided his eyes and continued to clean. The dishes now neatly stacked in the dishwasher, I moved on to laboriously scrubbing the stove, then the counters, followed by the cabinets and the floor. As I rigorously worked he came and stood in the doorway, watching me. Staring, really, silently waiting for my eyes to meet his in order to give him the courage to talk.  I looked up, flashed him a wide smile and got back to working, knowing that would keep him and what was circling in his head at bay and from reaching my ears for at least a few more minutes. We were living on borrowed time and I was fully aware of this. I knew what he wanted to say to me. And I knew all I was doing, aside from sterilizing the kitchen, was only delaying the inevitable. I just dreaded hearing those words. I wasn’t ready.

He returned to his spot on the couch, holding his head in his hands with such theatrics that it seemed like he was trying to mime what he had to say to me. I somehow managed to laugh to myself with this thought, yet at the same time desperately trying to think of some other way to occupy my attention, rendering it unavailable to him, making it as difficult as I could for him to drop that bomb he was holding.

But then I stopped. I had to. How long could I keep this up? How clean could the house possibly get before he’d finally manage to detonate it?

Surrendering in our silent battle for my undivided attention, I sank down next to him on the couch, where he clutched a throw pillow to his chest, staring ahead dolefully.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, knowing full well the answer to that question.

“No,” He replied.

“What’s wrong?” I continued, finally giving him the platform he had so struggled to win from me before.

“I’m not happy,” his voice quivered eventually. He looked pale, his eyes staring straight ahead, this time avoiding mine.  I knew this so it didn’t come as a surprise, but I still felt a rock forming in my stomach. It was that kind of feeling you get when you just start to make the descent from the highest point of a roller coaster.  It was really happening.  I was really losing him. The one last pillar holding up my life as I knew it, my person. He went on as his words severing our six years together grew more abstract to my ears, drowned out by my own devastation.

A few minutes later, numb with grief, I helped him clear off the spare bed. I left the room to gather my pillow and my quilt, but he stopped me.

“No,” he insisted. “This is your bed, I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom.”

I didn’t dispute this fact. The bed really was mine, though after being with him for so long I had forgotten this.   He and his stepfather had completely obliterated my then brand new bed while trying to get it up the stairs of our old house. After several failed attempts, a lot of swearing and power tools getting involved in this futile effort, John dutifully went out and bought a brand new one – which would become our bed.

Our bed…

I shrugged and nodded with a small amount of tepid relief. The spare bed was his own as a teenager, which he continued to use until we first moved in together. His old, lumpy double mattress was not nearly as comfortable as my newer, queen-sized pillow top. Despite my fresh wounds, I felt a small ping of satisfaction at the thought of him tossing and turning in this old 1970’s monstrosity as I enjoyed the comfort of an adult-sized mattress.

However, sleeping alone for the first time in six years I felt restless and lost.  What the hell just happened? That question looped in my mind, trying to wrap around this alien feeling. My life…I didn’t even know my life without him. Crumpled into a fetal position on my side of our – my – empty bed, my body shook with sobs and eventually grew limp as I drifted off to sleep.

Night turned into morning with only patches of sleep to be had. But despite such a restless night a rush of adrenaline acted as my alarm clock as I woke up before the sun, bounding out of that bed as if it were on fire.

Fuck this room. Fuck this bed. Fuck that asshole probably sleeping like a baby in the next room. Throughout my body I felt this primal urge to run, to escape.  I just couldn’t be in that house another minute. As fast as I could I threw on my clothes and pushed my feet into my shoes. I bolted out the door and down the sidewalk of our quaint, red brick street past the well-kept houses of our neighbors. I felt almost possessed as my legs pushed my body, attempting to sprint away from the emotional demons that awaited me back home.

Can I still call it ‘home’?

I crossed Lake Ave. into the park, my Mizunos pounding the asphalt path. Past the pool, through the park, down the solstace stairs and to the lake I ran as my heart and mind processed the melting pot of conflicting emotions – unrelenting sadness, fear, even relief. When I finally reached the end of the trail, where Lake Erie hurls itself into the rocks, I stopped in my tracks and gazed across the water. I felt my heart furiously pump the blood through my veins from this explosion of activity

The skyline of downtown Cleveland was nestled in the distance, on the other side of the U shape that makes up the city’s west side waterfront. John and I had spent countless times in this very spot, walking Happy, taking photos, just enjoying the day. But one thing we always talked about doing yet never had was watching the sunrise.

I sat down on one of the benches, letting the sweat bead down my face as I watched the sun slowly emerge from the water, gradually illuminating the city.

What am I going to do?

Hell In A Handbasket

September 2016

I’m actually not sure which made me feel more like a dumbass; the original reason behind the picnic basket or walking around the center of a large, trendy metropolis like Hamburg with it – this heavy, cumbersome wicker box slung across my body. The leather strap dug into my shoulder through my shirt as I awkwardly tread down the sidewalk of Jungfernsteig, trying to find the real life manifestation of where Google had marked the post office with a big red pinpoint. This search was proving to be frustrating and unfruitful, as the GPS on my phone kept insisting that the Apple Store was the post office when it was so clearly evident that it was not. Yet no matter how many times I retyped the address or maneuvered my phone through the air to make sure I was walking in the right direction, the GPS adamantly insisted that this was the place. Shaking my head, I ducked inside the pristine glass doors into the delicate simplicity that is the Apple Store with this large, clumsy basket in tow. Ignoring the inquisitive looks I detected in my peripheral vision, I politely asked the first smiling “Genius” if they could tell me where I could find the post office.

“Oh! If you go down into the U-Bahn station they have a small kiosk!” he cheerfully replied, lying through his teeth as I found out later. The closest thing to a post office I could find in the U-Bahn station was a gift shop selling postcards and “HAMBURG” swag.

Fuck.

Exasperated, I considered just leaving the damn thing on a bench somewhere just to have it out of my life and (even better) off of my body. But then I thought better of it– the last thing I need to add to this pile of shit I’m in is to end up on the eleven o’clock news as the “Hamburg Picnic Basket Terrorist”. Despite my amusement at the thought of the bomb squad robot being used to remove this harmless, ever-so-1950’s picnic basket, I was just feeling low and defeated. I grabbed the leather strap, switched shoulders and trudged down the sidewalk to make my way back to the Haptbahnhof. I’m never getting rid of this stupid thing, I thought as tears threatened to form. I fought them back, knowing that just walking around looking as miserable as I probably did while carrying this idiotically cheerful object probably made me look like a total lunatic as is. If I started crying, I might get the Polizei following me. I had a train to catch, and the best thing for me was to take my picnic basket and get the hell out of there until I could figure out another way to get rid of it.

The thing is, it really was a cute basket. It came with plates, champagne flutes and steel cutlery and was fitted with a triangle-shaped top and very picnic-y blue plaid lining. I even thought about keeping it, but I needed it gone.

I rode the stuffy, crowded train toward home with the stupid thing on my lap. I wanted to just park it on the seat next to me, but then I would have been subjected to stern German glares and emphatic “Entschuldigung!”s for taking up an extra seat like another thoughtless American. I got out at Buchholz rather than home to Lauenbrück, deciding that I would have better luck finding a post office there.

Well, I was almost right. I did find a post office. It was a cute red brick storefront among other cute red brick storefronts with a friendly yellow sign that said “Deutsch Post”…right next to a much less friendly sign saying “Geschlossen” (CLOSED). The leather strap weighing painfully on my shoulder, I stood there and stared for a good minute, silently talking myself out of just setting the fucking thing on fire right there.

I didn’t have any matches anyway.

I could get some.

No, Laura.

It was going to be at least another forty minutes until the next train home arrived, and all I could think to do was slump down on a bench at the platform with the nuisance basket at my feet and wait. Twenty minutes later more people began to congregate on the platform, some waiting for my train, others on the opposite side going back to Hamburg. An elderly woman came over and sat next to me. I managed to offer her a polite smile but then turned my gaze back to the tracks as I was losing the battle to stop myself from crying.

Christ, Laura, pull yourself together.

But that thought only weakened my defense and I felt a wet drop glide down my face, which I quickly wiped away and turned my head the opposite direction of the woman. When I finally felt more stabilized, I turned back. This sweet lady was now looking at me with a sympathetic expression on her face, holding her hand out to offer me a small package of tissues.

 This unfortunately opened the floodgates as my restrained tears became uncontrollable sobs. So much for pulling myself together. However, I was grateful for her kindness after such an awful day. I gently took them from her hand, smiled and thanked her appreciatively.

Jesus. Now I must look completely insane to this poor woman – sitting here bawling with a picnic basket at my feet.

Stop it. STOP.

I somehow managed to calm down as I was growing more weary by the minute, my energy drained by the day’s events. More than anything, I was just so mad at myself for even being in this situation. Praying to whatever deity happened to be listening for a sinkhole to swallow me right there, I slumped in defeat and waited for the next train home.

New Year’s Day

January 18, 2016

I’m declaring today my New Year’s Day.

 On January 18th, 2016 I finally moved out. With the “Mission Impossible” theme looping through my head the entire time, I both planned and executed this move like a ninja. I had made all the arrangements with Two Men and A Truck while sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store, so to not risk John overhearing the conversation,. In no time, I had set the date to do a confidential move. This is something they do in cases of domestic violence, stalking, or for people like me who just want to get on with their lives.

At 6am  I woke up and immediately had the shakes. I realized that, on top of being nervous as hell I also hadn’t really eaten the day before. Anxious that any oddity would arouse even a shred of suspicion from John, I had left the things I wanted from the common areas unpacked and untouched, careful not to express interest in them. As he had already been stashing the things he wanted to keep without so much as a discussion, I decided that feigned indifference to what I wanted would be my best weapon. After all, he was the one who was forcing me out so he could be with some boring, blonde bimbo from the office. He already took away my home, half my friends and 6 good years of my life. I’d say I was entitled to help myself to anything of “ours” that I damn well pleased.

But first, I was hungry.

For old times sake I got dressed and drove around the corner for one last quick breakfast at The Place To Be. It’s a cheap diner and one of my old favorites, and their French toast and scrambled eggs were just the thing to fuel the long day I had ahead of me. I ordered and just sat there for a bit, looking around. The diner is quintessential Americana, with its vintage bar stools and bottomless coffee – your typical no-frills classic breakfast place. The waitress spoke with a thick Greek accent and never let my coffee get below a half a cup – which is something that used to annoy me but now I really do appreciate.

 I’m going to miss this place.

By 7:00am  I was back home and ready to execute my well-laid plan. I hurried upstairs, closed the door to my bedroom and moved quickly but with caution, perhaps overly aware of every sound I made. I gingerly unplugged my iMac from the surge strip, wrapped it in my bedclothes and used the pillows from my bed as packing material. Anxious that even the slightest deviation from the norm would mean John had switched gears and decided to work from home, I carefully listened for anything out of the ordinary. The creaking of the old wooden stairs under his feet, the swish of the shower curtain and the steady hiss of water shooting out of the shower head  were all signals that his familiar routine had commenced. So far, so good.

I was almost done packing up my bedroom when I suddenly heard the side door slam shut, alerting me that he had left for work. I scrambled downstairs to get a look out the back window as the garage door whirred open. With mixed emotions, I watched John’s car back out of the garage and roll down the street for the last time.

Adrenaline immediately took over. I got to work unearthing things that he had buried on “his” side of the basement. He had stuffed the more desirable objects in the back of the pile, clearly thinking that burying the things he knew I may want would somehow keep me from getting them. Oh no, now nothing was going to stop me from taking whatever the hell I wanted, and certainly not some feeble pile of old monitors and shitty kitchen chairs from the 70’s.

I dug out my deceased father’s TV stand (for some reason among said buried things) and the mini fridge from the attic bar we had built in the old house. I gave them a quick cleaning, shoved some of the Tupperware into the fridge and moved on to the upstairs, where I promptly removed the curtains from all the windows. Every move felt calculated, like I was going down a checklist. My emotions completely shut down and the logical, “get shit done” side of my brain had kicked into full gear.

The decorations from the dining room he had thought he had hidden were carefully packed up as well. I continued this frenzy, snagging the cool Halloween tombstones, strobe lights and fog machine, my pillow he had commandeered for his bed, all the champagne flutes and wine glasses and anything else I could find until I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted.

Well, I left him one wine glass. I’m not a total bitch.

I will add with a bit of smugness that I bagged all the liquor.

With every minute that ticked away, my gnawing fear that John would return due to forgetting his coffee or a canceled meeting faded. At about 8:30am, I got a rather clandestine phone call from an “Eric”. It turned out that Eric (his real name) was with Two Men and a Truck and wanted to know if the coast was clear, something they do for all the confidential moves. I informed him that that the “coast” was indeed clear, resisting the urge to add something like, “Team One, engage!”

At promptly 9:07am, they pulled into the driveway. Eric and his moving partner Ivan greeted me and had me give them a tour of every room in the house, making sure they knew what to load up and what to leave behind. And in a remarkably swift and organized fashion they got right to work, refusing my help to carry things. At one point I lamented out loud about how much I was going to miss the five burner gas stove in the kitchen – to which they offered to uninstall it and load it onto the truck. I considered it for a minute, after all it’s not like John ever used it. The cooking was always left to me, and when left to his own devices he just ate whatever microwaveable crap he picked up at the corner store. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice if I took it. But then I remembered the size of the storage unit I had rented and graciously declined their generous offer.

By 10:45am they were done, having loaded about 80% of an entire three bedroom house into their truck. Most of the furniture had been mine before I met John, and I wasn’t about to leave any of the nice stuff behind for he and his new bimbo to enjoy. Peering inside of the moving truck, I shook my head in disbelief. After having packed what seemed like an eternity of my possessions, it all took up maybe an eighth of the cargo area.

By noon, everything had been driven and loaded up at their respective locations. Despite the arctic January temperatures Eric and Ivan had remained super friendly and professional. Of course, I thanked them and tipped generously.

Soon I was pulling into the driveway of Larry’s house – my final destination and home until April. I unloaded my car, poured myself a glass of wine, stepped into my slippers and sat down to chill for the first time in far too long.

It was finally over.

The next morning I woke up from the best night’s sleep I had in a long time. I shuffled out of the bedroom and down the stairs without any dread as to who I would see. I wandered into the kitchen and made myself coffee and breakfast without feeling unwelcome or an annoyance to a man who once told me that I was his soul mate. I spent the day unpacking, hanging extra curtains and Skyping with my wonderful new friend Matthias in Hamburg, whom I had met through my longtime friend Patty after I had made my announcement about my plans to move to Germany. Patty introduced me to Matthias stating that she wanted to be sure that I knew at least one good person in Germany. This turned out to be a fabulous idea on her part, as he and I had a lot in common and would at times talk the night away. Tonight our conversation went on for over four hours, during which I gave him a tour of the visual candy that is Larry’s house.

Larry’s house, like the one I had shared with John and many others in Cleveland, was built in the early 1900’s. The original woodwork had been restored and meticulously kept up, and everywhere I turned there was something unique, colorful and interesting to see. Artwork, trinkets from his many travels to Asia, and memorabilia of famous musicians from his days as a concert promoter seasoned his house. I could have lived there for a whole year and still not have seen everything. But it was the overall positive energy of this place that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, noting the stark contrast to the unfriendly, hostile environment from where I had just escaped, and for the first time in too long I was finally enjoying some peace.

After I got off the call with Matthias, I decided to enjoy the tranquility some more and take advantage of Larry’s jacuzzi bathtub. I lit candles and put on the calming music of Poe and Garbage. Then I turned off the lights and sank my body into the hot bubbles, letting the jets pulse all over me. Backlit by the candles, I watched the steam rise off of my toes poking out from the foamy bubbles at the other end of the tub. It was great to not have to do anything, just relax. Between packing and moving and carrying things up stairs and unpacking and go go go..this was the first time in what seemed like ages that I had actually stopped in my tracks and did something relaxing just for me. Not because I had to, not because if I didn’t do it I’d feel guilty or like I’m wasting time….simply just for me and my own sanity. And really, I needed it.

My mind wandered, and the gravity of everything I had lost suddenly became like someone had set an anvil down on my chest. Tears stung my eyes as I heaved into a sob. Normally I’d make myself stop, but this was different.This time I just let myself go, alone in the dim candlelight with the foam and jet streams of the bath wrapped around me like a comforting hug.

Will I ever be happy again?