He’s sitting listening to music and when I came home it was football and music and he crowded the room until there wasn’t air.
There has never been air since he day we met, or fun, only stoppage of the things I loved for all the things he loved and no one really cares because in times like this you find yourself alone.
Of course, friends want to know vicariously. It seems. They help, vicariously.
Maybe they like the real falling apart.
It fell apart because he never fucked me. He stopped the minute I wanted a child. He was too selfish — or he wanted to be the child — the one who all the cookies were for.
He wasn’t a man. But none of them were. They weren’t.
I hear the ice clinking. He’s making a drink. Bushmills. It used to be ours. But that was a long time ago.
He would prefer it if I died. But I don’t plan to. I plan to stay alive because love lies outside this. It does and I know it.
I made cookies once. They were lush with chocolate chips. I tried, but other things beckoned.
I was bored. He bored me. The concept of baking bored me, after years of it. I could do it blindfolded if I wanted to. Cookies are too easy. Cookies are for women who are dumber than me.
I will be strong. I will be able to get out of this. A friend said “It will get harder before it gets better.” I believe that.
He bored me because he didn’t love me and he didn’t really want to know me at all. What he used to do was shut me off the minute I wanted to talk. He did that with a wave of his hand as if it were a kind of silencer.
I came home and he had Bushmills and Louis Armstrong playing. There isn’t air. There wasn’t air the minute he arrived. He sucked it from the room until I felt scared and small. He did this by slamming the door to my little apartment. He was trying to assert something, I have ended up hating him.
I made myself a drink.
I want to be loved.
I want to fall in love again and have it be real.
This kind of thing might be possible — it really might be. Real love. I want that.