Fuck Valentine's Day

When she gets tired of alternating days eating nothing with days eating nothing but potato skins, she emerges from her bed-cave and decides to take a shower. The towel’s still on the floor where she left it. It’s been cold, so the puddle of water next to it hasn’t dried. Clinically, she cleans up both and sits on top of the washer while she washes, dries, and folded everything he has touched. Her energy’s gone by then, so she leaves them in a stack on one of the living room chairs. Now, she doesn’t have a bed to go back to, so she picks a different towel and takes the shower.

Oh, she was a dramatic one. She’d collapsed on the floor when he told her he was leaving. It was a mistake—she knew this as soon as she hit the ground. The floor was cold, her hair was inadequately shampooed, and her towel, her last shred of dignity, had fallen so that her ass (and only her ass) was exposed to the cold air. She cried loudly, and he walked out. She was a pile of bubbles and water. And an ass.

She walks aimlessly, leaving her phone at home. She is disappearing, and you can’t do that with a phone. It’s dark. She enters a bar. There are ribbons in the way, and she pushes them out of sight, treading on the debris on the floor that blended together into a quite annoying shade of pink.

The bar is empty, save for the bartender and two women who comfort a fourth who is crying. She’s about to leave, but she really, really wants a drink. Or three. This is a three-drink situation.

Five drinks later, she’s helping Crying Woman into a chair. Bartender pours her another drink on the house and joins all of them with a bag of chocolates. The circle of women, mostly strangers, all wronged, all alone, all united by the quite pertinent possibility of only ever living with cats ever again.

Love, Later

Breakfast

Theirs wasn’t a love story.

For that to be true, they would have had to love each other in that ridiculous ultimate way that ended with either a happily ever after or both of them blowing their heads off.

She laughed when he told her this, so hard that she slid in and out of view from his rearview mirror. “You’ve been reading too much again,” she said, not opening her eyes from where she was stretched out in his backseat. “No one’s story ends like that. Happiness is relative.”

“So love is relative too?” he asked. “I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t buy that killing each other off is the only way to find true happiness,” she replied easily. Her eyes remained closed, seatbelt draped haphazardly over her hips so that she was technically safe.

“And are you happy?”

She tilted her head at him from where she was lying down in his backseat, eyes shiny slits of green as she squinted in the spots of sun that made it past the tree blurs on either side. This was getting way too deep for a car ride to breakfast. “Yes.”

“Relatively.”

“They’re the same thing.”

He’d wanted to push her, to ask, “Relatively to what?” She would have gone along with it. She had a lot to say on the subject of faith and signs from heaven. She meditated in the mornings, rearranged her furniture to salute the sun, had Chinese characters tattooed on the inside of her wrist. He would have circled the block a couple times when they got to the restaurant to keep her talking. She wouldn’t have noticed.

Instead, he pulled into the parking space, hearing her shift behind him, pulling her shoes back on, murmuring softly to herself. She hated premature silence.

He got to her door before she could. “Honestly, it’s the twenty-first century,” she said (she accepted his arm anyway). “Wait.” She reached up and yanked two grey hairs from the front of his head.

“Now four more are going to grow in their place,” he joked, taking a quick glance at the top of her head. But she was almost six years younger than him, and her hair was dyed. He’d probably never see the first of her grey hair; she’d probably never let him.

“You honestly believe that crap?” she asked, grinning up at him.

She stepped away from the car too quickly, and he pulled her back, away from the oncoming car. It honked at her as the driver raised his arm. They didn’t have to see him to know what he was doing.

The shock registered for a split second before she stepped back out into the street. “Well, fuck you!” she screamed, eyes radiating with that exhilarated look she got whenever she disobeyed a rule. Suddenly revived, she grabbed his elbow and they practically skipped to breakfast.

They flipped through the health food section of the menu first by habit before they looked up and registered that they were the only two sitting at the table. She raised her hand for the waiter and ordered a plate of chocolate chip pancakes and two glasses of chocolate milk.

“We’re old, we’re falling apart,” she told him. “Might as well do it on a sugar high.” He was almost fifty. It was embarrassing that sugar still gave him a buzz. But she smiled—a real smile, and there were lines on her face that he didn’t remember. He reached out to touch one around her mouth, and she laughed, reaching for her napkin. “I haven’t eaten anything yet, and I’m already a mess.”

He finished tracing the line somewhere near her chin and said nothing.

Full of sugar and laughter later, as they drove to the theater in his car, he decided that at that moment he was happy, relative or non-relative.

Blue Morning

She awakes to find morning peacefully infiltrating the room. Around her, the blue light of pre-dawn touches the walls, the ceiling, her skin. Somewhere on the other side of the house, the sun peeks over the horizon, sidling into view, but in this room, it is still night.

She swings herself silently over the side of the bed. It’s one shot, motionlessly moving her feet from bed to floor, a perfect science of hand bracing and weight placement. She accomplishes this action easily, a practice she’s perfected over ten years. Still, she glances back at the figure beside her, checking for the quiet expression she both knows and needs to see. He sleeps on, still a light sleeper after all these years.

It takes one to know one.

She needs a purpose for getting out of bed, a better one than “I just needed to get out,” and decides on water. She shifts her weight to get to the bathroom, feet protesting the sudden weight, every sore joint in her body begging her to make it stop. She pushes through the pain, as she’s always done, smiling to herself. It’s amusing how years of running and fighting and travel have simply ensured her safe travel to and from her own bathroom.

Her glass feels cool and familiar in her hand, and she reaches for the tap, glancing at herself in the mirror. She’s been losing weight over the last fifteen years, and her skin looks stretched, taut over a face that has aged. She’s weathered, but (and this always shocks her) there she is. The same nose, the same curve of chin and lips, the same eyes that could never decide on reflecting blue or green light. There’s something new in her face, though, an expression in her eyes. She looks closer. Compromise? No, acceptance.

She turns the tap, filling her glass with water, glancing through the mirror to where he still sleeps behind her, remarkably still in the room of blue. It’s been a while since he’s slept through the night. Even now, years after they’ve had to load and unload their lives from a car in a matter of minutes, he sleeps restlessly. He’s a hero without a cause, and when he sleeps, his body twitches beside her, muscles clenching and unclenching, still ready for action.

She takes a sip of the water, surprised at the contrast between the comforting fluid and her dry mouth. She finishes the first glass easily and fills another.

Come to think of it, though, she can’t remember his last fitful night. Did he still have the dreams? Did he sleep all the way through the night now? She’ll ask him. She’s always hoped for his peace, but she knows him, knows him better than anyone. She’d rather live with him up in the air, together in this purgatorial calm, rather than alone on the ground.

Suddenly, she has to be near him.

Her foot slips on the last step to bed, and she catches herself on the bedside. He awakes somewhere in the middle of her scramble to get herself back under the covers, and by the time she looks at him, he’s conscious, blinking, trying to focus on her face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is cloudy, confused.

“I was thirsty.” This was true. She had been thirsty—simply didn’t know it until she had mouthfuls of it sliding down her throat.

“Is that it?” There’s too much for him to process. He’d rather ask questions than read this wrong. He’s still not sure whatever this is.

She lies down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. “I love you.”

He kisses her tentatively. And damn, it was true, what they said about not saying it enough. He’s still confused, and so is she. But he’s here, and so is she, and they’re too tired to speak, so she rolls onto her side and smiles, and he knows it’s alright. Each tries to watch the other fall back asleep, but they won’t remember who succeeds, because they’re both asleep soon, slipping off to somewhere soft and warm.

Outside, orange light seeps into the blue, filling the sky outside and the room around them.

Creature

A certainly strange creature, commonly talked about, hardly seen. Look for it in bookstores or work or in your basement, playing World of Warcraft with your best friend. It's a small creature, small enough to be held in a palm. However, it's best owned by two. Some find it best suited to three or four, but, if possible, try not to own it alone. It's a large responsibility and you may find yourself overwhelmed with your tiny creature. It appears meek and joyful. Do not be fooled. At times, it becomes sad and moody. A beautiful being, like bamboo. Like all things, it is either saved or not. Kept or not. Held or not. Forever or not. There is no in-between, no half-creature, though you may lead yourself to think that it still lives with you in your bed or the sunny window in your kitchen. Do not be fooled. If it has left, it may come back. Or it may not. You must not wait for it. It will not come to you inside and alone. The creature loves people, and while you are out looking for your creature, you may find someone looking for theirs. Out of nowhere, it may come back. Both of you will have to share it, but the creature doesn't mind. That may be the most maddening part. If Something should happen and your co-owner leave, the creature may stay with you or with both of you. You will wake up and find it curled at the edge of your bed, staring at you with large and steady eyes. It will follow you until time arrives and quietly leads it away out your chimney and into the atmosphere.