The week had not started off right but then again the 40 days before that Friday hadn’t been our best. I had arrived to the apartment on the second floor of the complex in Montebello and I knew as I slid the crooked key into the lock that I had inadvertently set off a chain of inevitable actions that had been waiting to collapse like a row of propped up dominoes.
As usual, upon entering our shared 800 square feet I made my way to the kitchen that sat immediately off the front door and to the right. Like instinct my hand grabbed the wooden handle to the yellowish colored refrigerator that had come with the space. With a jerk I opened the door and heard the soothing clanking of glass bottles that awaited within.
I reached in a pulled the beer from the lower shelf, opened it and took the first of many swallows. She would not arrive home for a couple hours and for now the empty and quiet space was mine. In less than twenty minutes, as I sat on the white chair we had recycled from her German grandparents home, the liquor had begun to warm the veins at my arms and was beginning to creep its way to my chest, throat, eyes and brain. The familiar daze kicked in and I forgot that time existed.
Eventually though, the jarring front door reminded me.
She came in with a half-smile on her face and that eroded when she noticed the four bottles sitting at the counter of our tiny kitchen. I chose not to acknowledge it. At the time it seemed prudent to let the usual take its course. Today though, I reminded myself, was not usual.
Who fired the first shot is unclear. She was tired. So was I.
The last few month had become a constant unwillingness from both of us to meet in the middle. My constant drive to push limits without concern for her needs and her growing campaign towards a more adult life had become near irreconcilable forces. The arguments were constant. Feelings were hurt on a daily basis and as of late conversations had become mere efforts to pass on the most elementary bits of information.Who’s paying this bill? Do you have the late shift this week or next? Are you going out with them again?
The argument was long, exhausting and draining. Neither party had clear answers and ultimately it seemed that the lack of common ground led to only one conclusion.
We were not working as a pair. We had tried and enjoyed a great experiment together but we were different people and now it was time to seek opposite paths. My eyes ached by 11:38 that evening. I could continue to cry on but my body had no more tears. Worst of all, as I grabbed the keys from the counter I looked through the kitchen and viewed her flaccid body on the white chair.
I could see disappointment and a broken heart.
When we met, the young man she experienced had promising talents and virtues that over the years had leached to the world of frenzied mediocrity at the sands and bars of Venice Beach.. She had invested time and love. For her efforts she had received very little.
The cold of the evening hit my cheeks as I closed the door behind me. Perfectly sober I found the red Nissan Z sports car we had bought together in the parking lot. As I pushed the silver key into the ignition I felt the weight of the last few months land on my thighs.
I was leaving the best person I had ever met. We had drawn lines and we’d possibly never be together again.
