In the beginning, the song was sweet,
But somewhere along the way, the melody darkened,
We are the bones of what we used to be.
I am melancholy in your midst; mourning and morose.
Day 380
Silence has its own sound. It can speak to you in a way that noise could never reach. It slides between your shoulder blades and tap, tap, taps at your heart, reminding you that you’re the only noise in the room. Your uneven breathing, your heartbeat, the sounds of your movements. You’re the disruption.
I can’t stand the quiet. As I braid my hair, I try to figure out what to say to make it different. I need a game plan . . . something to remind us of the glue that holds us together. Even if it’s hardly doing its job. I hold onto the hope that although things aren’t as solid as they once were, we’re together and together, we can fix this.
We’re better together than we are apart. We can fix this.
Maybe.
Or maybe I’m chasing a dream; another relationship I had at another time with another man who happens to look just like the one lying in my bed.
Who knows? After last night . . .
I lean back and peek outside the bathroom to check if he’s awake and when I see him lying on his back, his hand on his bare chest and his eyes looking at the ceiling, I immediately straighten. We can fix this, but I’m terrified to try. So afraid to try but even more terrified at the idea of failing.
What if we can’t fix it? I secure my second French braid with a rubber band. I’m sure to pick up the stray hairs that fell from my scalp because I don’t want to give Gavin any reason to be annoyed with me. I tiptoed around my apartment earlier, sure to clean up after myself and avoid the things he hates. I didn’t climb on top of him to wake him up, I fed the dog and blew out the candles before I forgot, which happens more often than it should. The last one is something we used to laugh about. We don’t laugh about it anymore. We don’t laugh about much anymore.
I ball up the orange strands between my thumb and forefinger and I’m about to throw the hairball in the trash when I feel him staring at me. I didn’t even hear him get up, but I can feel his eyes on me.
There’s something about Gavin’s stare. His eyes and mine, they have a magnetic pull to one another and to prove the thought, I turn and look at him. His eyes are usually warm. This morning, they are only tired. Tired of arguing, tired of fighting, tired of wondering.
What happened to us?
I did that to him. But the look in my eyes? He did that to me.
I drop the hair in the trash and skirt around him. I can feel his breath on me as I pass him by and it’s almost like he wants me to remember he’s alive and he’s here. He doesn’t leave me much room to leave, not budging, so I have to lean in. I hold my breath as I pass and at the sound of the click of my dog’s nails, I find my out. I grab his leash and pull on my coat without a word.
I can hear the vibrating sound of Gavin’s toothbrush—the one I never threw away—as I close the door behind me.
We could fix this if I could find the courage to look him in his eyes and tell him the truth.
I’m not okay.
But I didn’t want to have to choose between myself and him. That isn’t what love is.
I look down at my monster of a puppy and though he’s sitting still, obediently waiting for the elevator, I recall Gavin’s annoyance with him in the past.
“You’re a good boy, Carlos,” I tell him but he’s already running into the elevator. A few moments inside—thankfully alone—and we’re off.
We make it out of the door and though I expected it to be frigid, the sun is out. Carlos is already peeing a little with excitement which makes me laugh and I try to hurry outside. All while I walk him, he leaves his mark on posts and sniffs everything.
I glance at my watch and look back at where we came from. I’m not ready to go back; to see Gavin and not fall into our once easy routine. It’d been months since we shared the same space, with him being gone these last few months. Would it feel as it had before?
I head back that way anyway because I have to get ready for work. I’m hoping within the hour between now and clock-in time, I’ll figure out what happens next. I squeeze my eyes shut as I stand on my stoop. I remember when I couldn’t wait to get here, when I couldn’t wait to see Gavin and now I . . . I don’t know what to think.
I still love him. I love him beyond my peace. But if there was a rewind button, I’d press it. I’d make different choices.
I can pinpoint the exact moment it all changed. Sometimes change is sly and it sneaks up on you. Sometimes people claim they don’t know where it came from, but I know better than to deny it. When you’re so fully in love with someone, you notice.
Besides . . . it wasn’t like the moment could go unnoticed. It sat between us in my apartment and played over and again when I tried to sleep at night.
It was in his eyes and in mine.
Could be that we’d pinpoint different moments. Could be that that was where the problem lay. But were we willing to really have that conversation, accept that hurt, and move on?
When I make it up to my apartment and notice it’s empty, my shoulders slump a little. I start to pull off my clothes and when I get to the bathroom, I turn the shower on, getting the water warmed up. The steam billows over the top of the shower curtain covered in stars and moons. As I take my braids out, I glance at Carlos in the doorway and smile. I step into the shower and hiss as the hot water pelts against my skin, its heat making my skin red. I adjust the temperature a little and start washing my hair when I hear the front door close.
Shit.
I left my clothes on the floor. I close my eyes. He hates when I do that.
I wait to hear him call out my name in that annoyed tone of his but I remember we aren’t there anymore. This isn’t going to be a situation a wet kiss and a quickie can fix.
I’m rinsing my hair when I turn and see him getting in the shower. I avert my eyes and the way he reaches around me makes me want to cover myself.
Suddenly, I’m hit with the memory of the first time he saw me naked.
Of us in my bedroom and clothes being torn and buttons being popped. Skin against skin, his beard chafing the inside of my thighs, my breaths filling the room like some sort of erotic soundtrack.
Memories. How can something that breathes life into your emotions also feel like it’s ripping you apart, limb-by-limb?
“Running late,” he says and I just nod, still in my nostalgic haze. I move around him to get out and I feel his hand on my upper arm. I look down at those fingers, up his tan hand, the coarse dark hair on his arm, his smooth shoulder, straight to those magnetic brown eyes.
I look down at his hand again and then back up at him, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t and when his hand drops, I sigh quietly.
There are miles between the two of us and neither of us knows how to reach the other. Nothing changes anything. Nothing makes this work anymore.
I get out and grab a towel.
My body should be covered in bruises. There should be bullet holes puncturing my flesh but I’m running my towel over smooth freckled skin. Strange that we don’t wear our emotional trauma on our skin. I wonder what everyone would look like if we did.
I’m fully dressed when I feel those brown eyes on me again.
“Denise?”
I’m glad I’m not facing him when he says my name, as if I can go back and change everything. I don’t know if I have any forgiveness left in me...if I have any more effort to spare. All at once, I want the inevitable end at my doorstep.
But I don’t. I still want him. I still love him.
Still so at odds and it makes me want to scream.
“How can I love you and hate you at the same time?”
The word “love” sounds so foreign and false on his tongue after last night.
“Only hate,” I whisper, wanting something to do, so I grab the clothes I left in my bedroom.
“You don’t listen,” he says, loud enough for me to hear on my way back to the bathroom.
“Don’t,” I tell him and look at the foggy mirror beside me, catching his eye in the clouded reflection.
“Then what’s the point?” he asks, his voice edging with annoyance. He never had the patience for this. For me.
I toss my dirty clothes in the hamper and he follows me, a towel sitting at his hips.
Truth be told, there’s no longer a point.
Truth be told, I’m waiting for this relationship to blow up in my face . . . even if I’ll fight and cry when the day comes.
The truth kills me more and more with each second that ticks by.
Truth be told, I couldn’t promise Gavin a future with me because everything I thought I knew was crumbling from beneath my feet.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I mumble as I grab my purse, coat, and keys. I glance at him just before I shut the door, shutting him out of my world. Only physically as the image of his face haunts me the whole way to work.