haven’t willingly indulged my desire to think about Dylan since seeing him at the restaurant the night before. I’m not strong enough to do that, so I refrain. Every time he wants to make an appearance in my thoughts, I think of her , and that puts the façade right back in place. Her —with her red everything. Her —that had the pleasure of his company last night. I wonder if she asked him who he was chasing and if he told her the truth. I wonder if she went home with him and erased all lingering thoughts he might have had of me.
I wonder so much and won’t be privy to answers, so I store these thoughts in that place where I push all my memories of him. I lock them away in the dented and damaged chest that lives in the recesses of my mind. It’s dark and dangerous, so I don’t venture there often.
However, sometimes I slip and revisit, much to my dismay.
I open my eyes to the laughter of children playing tag nearby. Something that should make me happy makes me sad, and I feel the wall rebuilding itself, brick upon heavy brick.
MY ALARM GOES off on time, but today is different. The weight that the date carries is already starting to drag me under. Grabbing my pillow, I bury my face under it. While holding my breath, I pray for the will to make it through the next twenty-four hours in one piece. It would have been wise to take the day off from work. I usually do, but end up there anyway needing to take my mind off other things. Things like wondering.
I wonder if we had broken up sooner, would it still hurt as much?
I wonder if we hadn’t broken up if we’d be married.
Would we have kids?
I wonder if he’s dating someone else.
I wonder why I would even add the word ‘else’ on the end like that.
Maybe he’s married to the woman in red… with kids.
Or maybe it was just a date and he’s single and available.
Was he ever available? Truly available?
Yes , he was once. Remembering his smile triggers my own, and how it affected me back then, how it brightened my day and made me anxious to return home to him. Memories run rampant and I hold the pillow over my face even tighter. When I open my eyes, I feel disgusted that I smiled over a memory of Dylan’s smile.
Tossing the pillow aside, I roll out of bed, deciding to skip the dramatics, and get ready. A hot shower does little to comfort me and even less than the memory of him did a few minutes before. I dress in a hurry, not taking my time, a dress pulled from the hanger haphazardly. Shoes are taken from the shelf without second guessing, wallet thrown in my work bag because I don’t want to take the time to find the ‘right’ purse for this outfit.
I leave my hair down to dry naturally, letting the waves form how they do when I don’t straighten them. When I move into the kitchen, I see the coffee pot, our old coffee pot. I don’t drink from it. Ever. It doesn’t come to life and percolate or provide me with the much needed caffeine to kick my ass into gear. It stands as a monument, a symbol of what used to exist here, representing the lives that used to live between these walls. It sits idly unused next to my $2,000 DeLonghi Coffee Center—my most decadent purchase A.D., After Dylan.
I’ve used the DeLonghi a total of three times, mainly because I don’t have the time to learn how to use it. I’m not home much if I can avoid it. Today is about overcoming the date’s history and making a fresh start, so I write a post-it note and stick it to the front of the machine’s gleaming stainless steel surface. Learn to use.
Since I don’t know how to use it, I walk down the steps of the stoop and head west one block. Opening the door to my favorite local bakery and coffee shop, a calm comes over me. Other than the park, this is one of the few places where I allow myself the courtesy to relax and absorb the comfort. Maybe it’s the warm wood tones and the soft music playing in the background that eases me. Maybe it’s the homemade
I wonder so much and won’t be privy to answers, so I store these thoughts in that place where I push all my memories of him. I lock them away in the dented and damaged chest that lives in the recesses of my mind. It’s dark and dangerous, so I don’t venture there often.
However, sometimes I slip and revisit, much to my dismay.
I open my eyes to the laughter of children playing tag nearby. Something that should make me happy makes me sad, and I feel the wall rebuilding itself, brick upon heavy brick.
MY ALARM GOES off on time, but today is different. The weight that the date carries is already starting to drag me under. Grabbing my pillow, I bury my face under it. While holding my breath, I pray for the will to make it through the next twenty-four hours in one piece. It would have been wise to take the day off from work. I usually do, but end up there anyway needing to take my mind off other things. Things like wondering.
I wonder if we had broken up sooner, would it still hurt as much?
I wonder if we hadn’t broken up if we’d be married.
Would we have kids?
I wonder if he’s dating someone else.
I wonder why I would even add the word ‘else’ on the end like that.
Maybe he’s married to the woman in red… with kids.
Or maybe it was just a date and he’s single and available.
Was he ever available? Truly available?
Yes , he was once. Remembering his smile triggers my own, and how it affected me back then, how it brightened my day and made me anxious to return home to him. Memories run rampant and I hold the pillow over my face even tighter. When I open my eyes, I feel disgusted that I smiled over a memory of Dylan’s smile.
Tossing the pillow aside, I roll out of bed, deciding to skip the dramatics, and get ready. A hot shower does little to comfort me and even less than the memory of him did a few minutes before. I dress in a hurry, not taking my time, a dress pulled from the hanger haphazardly. Shoes are taken from the shelf without second guessing, wallet thrown in my work bag because I don’t want to take the time to find the ‘right’ purse for this outfit.
I leave my hair down to dry naturally, letting the waves form how they do when I don’t straighten them. When I move into the kitchen, I see the coffee pot, our old coffee pot. I don’t drink from it. Ever. It doesn’t come to life and percolate or provide me with the much needed caffeine to kick my ass into gear. It stands as a monument, a symbol of what used to exist here, representing the lives that used to live between these walls. It sits idly unused next to my $2,000 DeLonghi Coffee Center—my most decadent purchase A.D., After Dylan.
I’ve used the DeLonghi a total of three times, mainly because I don’t have the time to learn how to use it. I’m not home much if I can avoid it. Today is about overcoming the date’s history and making a fresh start, so I write a post-it note and stick it to the front of the machine’s gleaming stainless steel surface. Learn to use.
Since I don’t know how to use it, I walk down the steps of the stoop and head west one block. Opening the door to my favorite local bakery and coffee shop, a calm comes over me. Other than the park, this is one of the few places where I allow myself the courtesy to relax and absorb the comfort. Maybe it’s the warm wood tones and the soft music playing in the background that eases me. Maybe it’s the homemade
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