Thomas

Yesterday she was here. I was counting the freckles on her back, mapping out the constellations that fell between them. I was kissing her neck and pouring hot coffee and things were sweet.

Today, she’s gone. I’m bitter and sunken and feeling the weight of a thousand unspoken words bearing down on me. She left in a flurry, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face flushed with embarrassment and anger. I stood tough, flat-footed in anger and desperation and pride. She blames herself for the battles. I blame myself for the war.

“I think it’s stupid!” she giggles, shaking her head in disbelief at the people down on the street. We’re sitting on the fire escape, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. There’s a dense layer of fog that has crept between the buildings, nestling right up next to each one. The people she’s referring to are walking away from where we sit – they’re clearly tourists – dressed in shorts and windbreakers, fighting the breeze in an attempt to read the crinkled mess of a map that the tallest holds tightly in his hands. “They should just google this stuff, honestly.” She chuckles, climbing back into the apartment through the open window and tucking herself into the blanket on the couch.

We sit there each morning on that fire escape, before the bustle of the day and the tiresome duty of work and school and whatever other nuisances find their way onto our agendas. It’s the chance we have to breathe in the chilly air and soak up the other’s attention. It’s peaceful and relaxing.

“Do you think people plan their lives because they want to?” She asks me. I look over to her. The jubilant smile that danced across her face just minutes ago was gone, replaced by a solemn look of something I didn’t quite recognize.

“I don’t know. I mean, I think we’d like to think that we’re prepped and have planned sufficiently. But do we, really? I have no idea.”

My answer wasn’t what she was looking for apparently, as she stood and shuffled into the bedroom. She clearly didn’t find my answer humorous.

“It feels like more than that.” She said. I could barely hear her, her body positioned away from me, her voice trembling and quiet. I stood behind her, brushing the hair off of her neck and kissing the gentle curve of her shoulder. She sighed only slightly before heading into the bathroom. Curious, I followed her.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She twisted the knob on the shower, glancing up at me only slightly.

“Yeah.” She said. “What?”

“It’s nothing, Tom. Don’t worry about it.” Undressing, she climbed in the shower and closed the curtain behind her.

“What did you want me to say?” I asked, now speaking over the sound of the water.

“I don’t know.” She said quietly. I turned to walk out of the bathroom when I heard her whisper “more” under her breath. I went to the kitchen to kill time before she was out of the bathroom and the conversation could be continued again.

“Clearly I didn’t give you the answer you were looking for.” I offered.

“Please, just forget I said anything.”

“Really?” Defensive was not where I wanted to take this conversation, but I felt cornered and accused.

“Please,” She whispered. I sat at the dining room table for a while, our previous dialogue running through my head again. She reappeared a few minutes later, dressed for work. “I’ll see you later.” She spoke flatly.

“Wait—” I managed to get only one syllable out before she was gone, the heavy door closing behind her. I followed her into the hallway, trapping her in the elevator. “What did you want to hear from me?” I asked, nearly pleading with her.

“I wanted to hear more, Tom! When I ask you if we plan our lives because we want to, or because we feel the need to be certain things in the eyes of those around us and you say no, what am I supposed to hear from that? You say that ‘oh, we’d like to think we know what we’re doing but we really don’t.’ What do I take from that?”

I scoffed and stared at her blankly.

“What are you asking me? If I think we have planned our lives sufficiently?” She shakes her head only a fraction before looking at her hands.

“Yeah, I guess. I thought you’d have more to say about it. I don’t know.”

“You don’t? Because it sounds to me like you’ve gone and made up your mind about what is said and what is thought.” The words felt like acid in my mouth and I wanted to pull them out of the air as soon as I spoke them, shoveling them back into my mouth so they might remain unheard. Her eyes met mine, only for a minute before she looked away. The doors to the elevator opened, and she stepped out.

“I’ll see you later.” She said again.

“Just. I didn’t mean that. Can we talk for just a minute please?” I fumbled along behind her as she approached her car. “I feel really cornered right now, can we please just talk for just a minute?” She turned and pecked my cheek before climbing in her car.

“It’s okay, Tom. It is.” She offered before closing the door and pulling out into the street. I headed back upstairs, at a loss for words, unable to piece together the broken conversation we’d just had out of the blue.

I returned home from work later that night to a half-empty apartment. The drawers where she kept her clothing were empty and askew. The closet and bathroom had been stripped. A garbage bag had been placed by the door and a note was left on the counter with her pink key. I flipped the note over, reading the scribbles of her handwriting. “I’m sorry, Tom” was all she offered. I sat, confused and upset for nearly an hour before attempting to call her. Her cell phone voice mail box was never set up, so leaving a message for her wasn’t an option. My texts went unanswered, as did my many calls.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I realized that this was another battle. Our fights had been few and far between, but the ones we did have regarded our futures, separately and together. It was then that I realized that she was asking me, as simply as she could, my intentions. We’d been together for nearly three years at that point, so it was safe to assume she was inquiring about the next step in our relationship.

She lost the battle. She heard my answer as a non-answer, a shade of gray. To her, that was enough. The war was my doing, each battle fought only partially, each disagreement met with some form of resolve and conclusion. But the war raged on, right under my nose.

Here I sit, alone, in the apartment that only remains as a battlefield, a reminder of the war that was fought desperately and with tired intentions.