Love was walking away again, chasing it wasn’t an option this time. For maybe the first time since he could remember, he was worth more than this. He was worth more than the begging and the pleading, the questions and the answers, the tears and the stars he would see if he closed his eyes that tight again. She walked past the windows and around the corner, out of sight. His heart exploded in anger and misery.
‘Bring her back’ it demanded of him. His own heart would always be his worst enemy, but this time his ego was gone, there was no more pain that would push past the summit of his self-love. She would come back or she wouldn’t, either way he would survive.
‘No, screw that’, he told himself. He would do more than survive.
Saturday afternoons seemed to breed these fights. Why didn’t matter, not that he knew why anyway, but what did matter to him now was that he could breathe again. A deep, full breath, the kind that makes your head light, rushed into his chest. The smell of honeysuckle came in through the kitchen windows. Suddenly he could hear the birds and the neighbors dogs, the sounds of cars on the street below and the bamboo wind chimes hanging outside.
Opening his eyes he sees the coffee pot sitting on the white counter tops. The kitchen is all her. The stainless steel toaster oven, the coffee pot blinking 12:00 eternal, the metal utensils she still uses on the non-stick pans. The whole thing is her, where is he in this house? What can he point to that lets anyone know he is alive and living here?
A painting on the wall that he would have chosen? Nope. The furniture he wanted at the store? Uh uh. Oh wait, the color of the paint in the bedroom! Wait, no, she talked him into that one, not really his choice – so it doesn’t count.
Maybe it was time to paint.
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