Three blankets covered me every night from lonely thoughts that tried to creep their way into my bed once the sun when down. The floorboards would creak when my unsteady feet pushed me to stand every morning. I needed to get those fixed. I remembered the last time they needed to be repaired; I had flipped through the phone book, my fingers only bracing small cuts by the time I called. My new hardwood floors where installed quickly, much sooner than I had expected. Yet, they felt sturdy under my feet. A new foundation. I couldn't remember the amount of times I had ripped old pieces up and pitched them. Each time the crowbar cracked off another board, I'd tell myself "I'm not going through this again". I only spent a few moments staring at the mess I had made, studying why the pieces hadn't fit together the way I thought they did. I knew the answer long enough to stave off questions from on-lookers on the street. How long has it been since I picked out a floorboard I enjoyed for myself? I would graze over sample boards, feeling like a professional in my own right. But had I mistaken eagerness for a new view over a stale atmosphere?
The dinning room sat two, a permanent place mat waiting at the end of the table. While I stole scraps in the kitchen by the cooking dinner, a feast waited for whoever would be sitting in the other room. Never once had I questioned why I prepared a meal for someone else's benefit in my own house, why I made myself out to be the guest of my own establishment.
"I know what I bring to the table, so I'm not afraid to eat alone" the slogan hung above the doorframe taunting me as I juggled pleading plates of wishes and hopes for a new connection. I felt the strongest when I wasn't alone, when another could remember to lock up before going to bed. I ranted and raved about independence, but craved another to warm my feet in the winter. I struggled to take shaky steps on my own seemingly alien legs. I felt weak in that moment, sitting on the opposite side of an empty table, denying myself the simple joy of self-love and self-care.
Ironically enough, no foreign dishes piled up in my sink. No trash bags full of flightless worry sat outside my back door, waiting to be disposed of. I had cleaned everything since then, and refilled my jar of sugar. He barely asked for any these days, and my doorbell rested silently. The picture frame of my old house continued to be nestled in the attic, covered in a layer of dust. The ring still sparkled when my flashlight would periodically shine over it. Bits of memories would wave hello as I searched for the old recipe book I kept up there for special occasions. I wondered what he would think of the sight of my house now. I presumed he found poison in the last batch of cookies I had sent over; a self-made placebo on his part. No cup of coffee could be shared in mutual nostalgia, then again I wasn't a coffee drinker. I doubted that date would ever happen.
The candles lighting my view were slowly reaching their end. I hadn't taken my eyes off the empty seat. My folding chair scratched the bare sub flooring as I stood, ready to leave. Temptation prompted me to knock the candles over and burn the whole room down.
