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Show and imagined him pacing the living room with his bourbon and water as we talked. He knew I would call. I sat on the floor alone in my apartment, thousands of miles from both continent and family, listening to the list of things I needed to do-cancel credit cards, close checking accounts, sell the car-but too tired to find a pen. The following morning, I woke. March sunlight flooded the bedroom John and I had shared revealing the layer of dust that had accumulated atop the pressed-board dresser we owned. Out the window: sky. We lived on the 43rd floor of an apartment building that looked toward Diamond Head. Below the world marched by in miniature, unaware that I had been left. The phone still on the bed, Kleenex balled in tiny fists around my head, the room looked the same as it had the night before. I moved my arms against the white sheets, felt the polyester grab at the tiny hairs on my arms. I was here. John had left but I remained. I made coffee and took a shower. John's razor was gone, but my shampoo and conditioner sat on the edge of the tub. When I went to find clothes to wear, I slid open my side of the closet, leaving his closed. My clothes hung there as they always had. They fit the same. So djdjny^hoes. Not everything had broken up, not everything had slipped by. I made the list as I drove to the mall. The three things I would do to keep this body of mine-the one that still remained, that grumbled for food, that goose bumped in air conditioning, that absorbed the blood from a concussion, that bore skateboarding scars, the one that didn't leave me when John did-together. I would take a daily vitamin, keep a journal, and return to running. 222 |
