I walk into my house and it doesn’t smell like brownies and you filled the cat food dispensers and Licious stares at me as if he’s not sure who I am—Fuck you, cat—and Riffic hisses—Fuck you too—and Tastic doesn’t even get off the fucking couch, so fuck him the most but no. They didn’t do anything wrong.
I did.
Your shoes are not lined up on the doormat and I call Oliver and a woman with a Lebanese accent says there is no Oliver and that’s typical. He changed his phone number. He was never my friend and his house is furnished and people in L.A. just use you to get what they want and I walk to my guesthouse and I hope to see your things in here, but my second little house is empty too. You ghosted me and I have to breathe in spite of my pain. You only ghosted me because you think I ghosted you.
I would never do that to you and you know that deep down, don’t you?
I am a wounded soldier of Love home from WWIII. I clean myself up and I should probably drive to the library instead of walking but I like the idea of you seeing me wounded, struggling and sweaty. When I get there, I hesitate at the front door of the Bainbridge Public Library and then I take a deep, first-page-of-a-new-book kind of breath and I open the door and there you are in the same spot where you were the first day I laid eyes on you. You drop your book on the counter. Splat. Roxane Gay today, a far cry from our Day One Murakami, all but sucked inside.
You march across the library and I follow you outside and you head for our love seat. You don’t sit—bad omen—and you make two fists and you seethe. “Oh, fuck it.”
Now you sit—omen reversed—and I sit too. You cross your legs, tights even today, in early summer, like a widow in mourning, and do I put a hand on your knee to remind you of the heat between us? I don’t.
“Mary Kay.”
“Nope. Don’t even try.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nyet.”
“I got shot.”
“That’s nice.”
That’s not nice and I touch the bandage on my temple and you fold your arms. “If you came here looking for pity, you may as well just leave.”
“I know I fucked up. I was in the hospital, Mary Kay. I got shot and I called you… I texted you… Hell, I tried to send you guys a pizza.”
You nod. “Howie died.”
That’s not my fault. Howie was a widower hanging on by a thread, by a poem. “I know. I saw. And I texted you when I read about it and I called you…” I can’t make this about me. “How are you? How was Nomi’s graduation?”
You uncross your legs and clamp your hands over your knees as if you don’t want me to see them, let alone touch them. Your knuckles are brass mountains. Mute.
“Hannibal, I know I fucked up. I’m not trying to make excuses.”
You don’t call me Clarice and your voice is new. “I think you should go.”
“We have to talk about this. You can’t just punish me because I got mugged.”
Foxes are nasty, they kill house cats, and you are no different. “You just don’t get it, Joe. And I’m going back inside.”
“Wait. You have to let me explain what happened.”
“I don’t ‘have’ to do anything. And this is our pattern. I see that now. It’s always me telling you that you don’t owe me an explanation or you telling me that I don’t owe you an explanation and we tried… but it doesn’t work.”
“This is different.”
You shrug. “We’re a bad fit. We’re always apologizing or making big ridiculous leaps that neither one of us are really prepared for. I don’t hate you. But I know this doesn’t work.”
“You can’t do this to me, Mary Kay. You can’t refuse to talk about it.”
“No, Joe. See that’s the thing that you don’t seem to understand about relationships, about women. Your feelings are not my responsibility.”
Yes they fucking are. That’s called “love.” That’s called “us.” “I know that.”
“So let’s be adults. I messed up too. I realize I was coming on way too strong, moving in with you, asking you to never leave me…”
“You were not coming on too strong. I loved all of it.”
“You don’t get to say that after what you did, Joe. Actions speak louder than words. And you sit here and you don’t even understand why I’m mad, do you?”
“You’re mad that I left. But, Mary Kay, I left you a note.”
“A note,” you say. “Yes, you left me a note. Mary Kay, I had to go to L.A. for a family emergency. I’ll call you when I land. I’m so sorry. Love, Joe.”
That is why you’re mad at me, that fucking note. But you memorized that note and I still have a chance. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry, Joe. I care that you didn’t wake me up to tell me what happened. I care that you were vague. When people are together they tell the truth. They don’t say bullshit like ‘family emergency.’ They grab your shoulders. They turn on the lights and they tell you exactly what happened and they ask you to come with them, Joe. That’s what adults do.”
“I’m sorry. Look, it wasn’t family, not exactly. But this girl I dated in L.A., her family is terrible…” It’s true. “And she got sick and—”
“Joe, it’s too late. You’re wasting your time.”
You say that but you don’t move and you’re right but you’re wrong. “Well, how about seeing it from my perspective, Mary Kay. You were married to someone, I know. And God bless him, may he rest in peace, but he dumped every single thing on you every single day. He didn’t hesitate to unload on you at 4:00 A.M. and did you ever think… maybe I was only trying to let you get a good night’s sleep? Did you ever think maybe I did that because I thought that was a good way for me to love you in that moment?”
“Maybe it’s not in your nature to love.”
Goosebumps sprout on my arms and fresh bullets zing my head, my heart. That’s the worst thing you ever said to me and we’re on our fucking love seat and you sigh. “I’m sorry. This is exactly what I didn’t want. I didn’t want a fight, and I do hope your ex is all better, but it’s over, Joe. And you need to accept that.”
I rub my head, just enough to remind you that I am wounded. “Well I don’t think it is.”
“I’m actually happy that you brought Phil into this…” I never should have brought that rat into this. “Because it really is about him. The one day he needed me to be there… I was with you. I’ll never forgive myself for that, Joe. And this whole disappearing act, the wounded warrior bit, you’re right. It does feel too familiar. I’m not gonna spend any more of my time taking care of a man who walks out on me and comes back wounded and needs me to fix it.” You take a deep, end-of-the-book kind of breath, as if you are ready for this damn novel to be over, and then you offer your hand as if you no longer believe in love.
You say that dirty word again. “Friends?”
Love didn’t murder me, but she got what she wanted in her psychotic depressive state. She murdered us. I shake your hand—Friends—and the power goes out all over my body and I walk to the parking lot. I am in no condition to walk, to drive. I find shade beneath a tree.