Green eyed and dark haired in an unwashed bathrobe she sits at the kitchen table, and stares at the laptop screen, with a Pasbt Blue Ribbon on the table, and a spoon full of dark chocolate icing hanging loosely in her mouth. She pulls the spoon out of her mouth sucking on the last good bit of icing and then lifts the beer can and takes a long.
She thinks how he would of loved this. She thinks about all the Pabst she drank the last two years. Empty cans that could fill up her whole apartment. All the beer, all the time, everywhere she would look it would be something living in the smallest crease of daily life.
She drives to work in grey in purple business casual with tears streaming down her face. The shoes she wears when they met. She thinks she needs to get over it. Over the idea that no one could compare. All men love video games and sports too much for her liking.
She talks to her co-workers inside the sales shop. She goes about her day counting money and sending e-mails. Only when standing still does she think abou him and what he doing. She thinks about his family down the road.
“Don’t be sad” co-workers tell her. She can’t help but smile at their attempts. But she knows they could not understand fully.
“Take care of yourself” says another man after he sees the tears in her eyes on the floor. The morning likes to haunt her. Every now and then her phone will vibrate. Oh its him, wait no. Then she remembers. The weight settles in her head. She swallows the reality.
She remembers the good times. The times when she felt free and affirmed living a place of love and happiness and endless pantsless dances and kisses. The bittersweet smell of the air in late April coming in French doors in a drafty flat. Dreamy days and long nights. Love notes left on plastic cats. The words that flowed so easily with help of cheap tequila and a dozen PBRs. Bike rides in the rain and dreams of being up on a stage dancing together.
She saw him cry once. He saw her cry more than a dozen times. Five years and his father. Five years and what a surprise. Absinth later. New Orleans. Still he was gone. And she knew that haunted him more than her mornings ever could.
She keeps busy. She folds her laundry, because she has the time. She goes to church, because that is the only thing that could take her back right now. Shame fills up her gut. Doubt eats away at her nights. And the light hits everything a little different.
He left that day with all the good times in his suitcase. A boyish grin. And a face she couldn’t read to save her life.
Where does love go when it dies?