Page 187 - Interior_SPRING SUMMER FALLING_2021
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SPRING SUMME R FALLING  | 187

               I pull my cover over my head to create a venue for this world class pity party. I
            handled it wrong. I should have stayed like an adult and had it out in person. I ran
            because I was scared he would reject me, and I would beg. This outcome isn’t much
            better. I just want time to piece myself together and try again. Looks like I won’t
            get that chance. He said we needed to talk, and he wanted to do it in person. I

            dropped the axe and pulled the “space” card before he could. All I did was beat him
            to the punch. Right? Why don’t I feel like I did the right thing?
               I wake up three hours later disoriented and confused. There’s nothing like
            wine and a cry fest to put you in a mini pity coma. The headache is gone, but the
            heartache still stands. I carefully pick my way to the nearest bathroom to pee. It
            used to be Henri’s. If my momma could see me now. She’d shake me and tell me to
            pull myself together. But, she’s out of town, so I’m free to sit  on the toilet
            blubbering like an idiot with my feet on tippy toes and my panties wrapped around
            my ankles. I sit there long enough for my leg to fall asleep. I flush, wash my hands,
            and limp to my phone. Maybe, just maybe, he’s tried to contact me. Nope. No
            phone call, text message, email, tweet, FB Message, Snapchat, or Instagram tag.

            Nothing. He hasn’t updated any of his social media platforms.
               I grab my forgotten bottle of wine to finish it off. I chug it like a frat boy doing
            a keg stand. I keep drinking until my lungs burn. I gasp for breath to start again.
            Empty. I sluggishly walk to my bathroom. I flip on the water. I stand there for a
            minute watching it drop out of the showerhead and flow down the drain, like my
            hope, dreams, and aspirations. A memory of Henri stabs me. It’s been happening
            since he moved. I need to move. This no longer feels like my sanctuary.
               No, it’s my  personal nightmare -hallowed by laughter, hot sex, and now
            heartache. Too many memories of him,  too many memories of us, too many
            previews of what could be. I strip and step under the spray. The least I can do is
            wash the scent of him from my skin.
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