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She looked like shit.
She certainly felt like shit. The prism was doing its thing in the sun with the rainbows. She had vacuumed all the house she was willing to vacuum. She was washing clothes - well bathmats and towels - his towel.
The one she had bought for a visit that never happened.
It wasn't like she wasn't used to having a broken heart. Shit, try three years old and your dad's prying his hands off your leg as he leaves the house forever (and later as he rips your self-worth into a used tissue). She knew heartbreak.
She had been drunk for two days when she asked him on the phone after calling him for maybe the second time in her life: "will I ever see you again?"
"I think so."
So, tomorrow, was perhaps the day she would see him again. He'd already put the parameters on it: Saturday night and Sunday morning.
She tried not to remember when it had been Friday to Sunday. That was a bit too hard.
And here we have it at five months and some change and he spent Christmas alone while she was also alone and was likely going to spend new year's with his pub folks. She had been to afraid to ask - or if she had asked she hadn't remembered the answer.
It had been a long two days where she honestly reckoned with herself: "Could I be a placeholder? would that be ok? at least I could be in his orbit."
And the answer?
She could be a placeholder for about one more day - maybe two. She was so fucking grateful for the opportunity to say farewell to him it was almost like he was a redhead.
"Stop pestering me." was what he had said when he had been snoring and she woke him up by removing - or trying to remove from his strong awakened grasp - his fucking glasses. Perhaps it had been over then. Perhaps it had been over in Wilmington when she was like "DO YOU EVEN LIKE ME!"
like like like
maybe he did like her. Maybe he thought she was a swell sport, but god knows he never said it. His mother fucking presence was his stated presents - and that's all she'd mother fucking get.
And a placeholder. He maybe laughed at her and said in his head "my bitch, you've been a placeholder the entire time except MAYBE the first four weeks when I didn't know you as well."
It made her own head ache. Her place was a reflection of it all.
It was a mess.
"Sorry for the mess."
And the family that had been so distant, like they always do - they come around at a funeral but where are they in the boring Wednesday.
This Wednesday wouldn't be boring though. It would be New Year's Eve. She bitterly laughed as a Southerner that she had thought he'd ... fuck it hurts to even name it.
So tomorrow.
Ah tomorrow.
Every fucking time - she thought he was going to cancel on her. Who knows. Maybe this time too. but tomorrow he said he was coming and he usually didn't renege.
Maybe this time he would. Maybe he also saw it as a goodbye. More likely - a chance to get some adoring
She paused to put her eyes in her fists on the desk but only a drop of a tear came out - she was getting better.
"Look, I've got to go watch some tv before bed. bye."
And she checked all the dials. She was absolutely still the same person now as she had been before when he had kind of been intrigued with her. Maybe she got a bit too bright and fraught, but who wouldn't when you're in love with someone and they smug it out.
"I'm pissed because I like you more than you like me."
"I can't help it."
Wasn't placeholder another word for 'friends with benefits' it was just more honest? What benefit did she get out of it? she had actually pondered it a tiny bit - maybe she was bored too and it's not like she had anything awesome to replace him with. She could easily (unlike him she smugly thought) hop on the apps and get some woo-ing; but she didn't want that of course.
She wanted him and baseball and Guinness and Pina coladas and naps....
fuck her. she was screwed.
the only thing that helped her is that it was mos def not her first rodeo.
She'd write a fucking storm of nothing about him - add some details like the last eggs - the last blow job. Her head would explode. She'd drink a bit more than usual.
THEN, she would dust herself off and trudge into mañana.
what choice.
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