One warm caress

I see you fastening the watchstrap about your wrist; the computer hums from where it was abandoned shortly before. You are preparing for an exit. I know. You are going to visit your parents, we discussed this earlier. I made a point of calling you at work to see if you’d be away this evening. I was craving an empty apartment.

“Okay, I’m going to my parents.” The second thing you’ve said to me since we arrived home an hour and a half ago. The first was, “Save some of those dishes for me to do.”

A quick kiss on the cheek preludes an even quicker one on the mouth.

“See ya,” you throw the phrase cheerfully over your shoulder. I don’t respond.

You lock the door on your way out. The deadbolt thuds into place, and I start to cry.

I had sent you an email, as you sat in front of your computer in your underwear, munching on shrimp chips and chatting online about the upcoming stag party for your best friend.

The email asked questions I knew were pointless to ask in person; body language always gets in the way. A backing away, a frown, darkening eyes... it's always the same.

I thought you might read the email before you left, and do something to break the thick silence that pushes its way further into our apartment with each passing moment.

But you didn’t get it. I have no answers, except those beating a mad staccato through my head. And God only knows which one is right, if any are right.

I kept quietly busy while you typed away; I washed the dishes, fixed myself something to eat, but my defenses wore down once I reached the laundry cupboard.

How long am I going to keep up this useless charade? Keep busy busy busy to avoid the silence? Let the clatter of dishes keep me company?

With every passing day of mundane numbness I can feel my heart deflating. There’s no interaction, no real communication, other than to complain about each other’s friends while the other defends. Without real communication there can be no real love.

With each hour we are closer, I fear, to the days of separating belongings, furniture, toiletries, towels, food. I would not stay here, not in the apartment that has been my first real home since I came here—my first real home because I was with you.

Have you ever noticed how this strip of sunlight slides down the side of my face, curving from cheek to chin? I can see the reflection of it on my computer screen.

But perhaps you are already forgetting the angles of my face. Perhaps you never knew them at all.