952 Written by Unknown

It is not the act of leaving that is hard, but what comes after. There are things I don’t notice at first—the lump of brown hamburger or the pound of potatoes sprouting in the bottom bins of the refrigerator. Now I am more aware of the waste one makes when they cook and eat for one, all the meals made that are never finished or even started. I’m aware of other things, like the slight sag of the bed on the side where I sleep. I would have never noticed it before, would have had no need to, but now it’s there as a mocking reminder that I can’t get rid of. But these are not the only things, there are others. These are just the first that come to mind.
You tell yourself you’ll sacrifice anything for the warmth of someone next to you, the feel of skin, the tiny hairs tingling against your arm. You notice more of what you miss. I know I am not the only one. There are the men and women at The Lucky Strike who I pass while walking home, drinking enough gin martinis so they’ll have a reason to blame for tomorrow’s morning after. After awhile it becomes easy to forget. Soon it is hard to even notice a difference. It is a only plastic doll, I know this. He is not a living, breathing person. I know that there is nothing to him, that inside there is nothing but air. I know who and what he is, but still he is there, he exists. And there is something to be said about how believing can make him seem real enough.
“Have you taken it back yet?” Janice asks me on the phone. She calls me from the hotel in Florida.
“Taken what back?”
“Oh come on, I need some cheering up, It’s been a long trip. Your inflatable friend, have you taken it back?”
“No,” I say. “He’s still here.”
“He?” she asks. I note the curious sound in her voice.
“Yeah, I haven’t had time to take it back. I’d throw it away but I’m afraid the neighbors will see.”
“Since when do you care about the neighbors?” she asks. I don’t respond. I look at Stud from across the bedroom. I had found an old sweater of Noel to dress him in and I bought some slacks at the thrift store down the street. “I’ll probably mail it back tomorrow,” I say.
“Hey, it’s okay, really. Noel was a putz anyway. I’m all up for whatever it takes for you to get over him and what happened. ”
“Can we not talk about this?” I say, louder than I anticipated.
I wonder, what is the point when one decides that enough is enough? If Noel hadn’t have left, how much longer would I have continued? That is the question I find myself asking late at night amidst the silence of my apartment. Not just would I have stayed, but would I have stayed anyway? And then, I remember. We were standing out in the winter snow waiting for a bus to come. It was so cold that when the wind blew it stung like a swarm of hornets piercing my skin. I forgot to bring my gloves, and as I waited there with him, I clasped my chafed, reddened hands together.
He saw what I was doing and huddled closer. He took hold of my hands and, pulling them up to his face, blew short, raspy breaths over our interlocked hands to keep them warm. “You’re so cold,” he said while starting to rub, trying to transfer his body heat to mine.And I stood there, frozen, afraid that if I moved he would let go. And I remember the softness of his fingers, the warmth of his skin, and I could not speak. The moment seems of little importance now compared to the rest. But I remember and, however small, it was enough to keep me going. It had been enough to make me stay.

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Posted on February 9th, 2009 in Fiction

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Sharing is good for the soul

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Mr. Stud

952 Written by Unknown

Comments by 952 People

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