Goodbye for now

A Little Hope

My left eye twitches struggling to stay open. The dry prickliness of my eyes is almost painful but I just roll my shoulders and strengthen my resolve, forcing my eyes to stay open. I almost give up when tears pool at my bottom lash line. I keep my eyes peeled waiting for my moment... and then he blinks. His eyes twitch forcing him to involuntarily forfeit my little game. He blinked, so I win! This little moment of happiness is the first that I've had in months.

Mystery man surprises me when he finally starts to move. He pulls his hands out from behind his back, the first time he's done that since he arrived at my front door this morning. One hand comes to rest inside the pocket of his black leather jacket. The other holds up a thick manila envelope high enough so I can see it through the glass. He lifts a devious eyebrow as if to ask if I've acknowledged what he's holding. He takes a step forward setting the envelope down on the welcome mat in front of the door then takes two huge steps back making sure to leave a good gap between himself and the door but still staying on our porch. Then a smug smirk tugs at his lips almost like he's daring me to open the door. Daring me to trust him, to leave myself vulnerable to whatever he might do to me if I open that door.

I shuffle towards the door. I'm only slightly holding my breath as one of my socks slips of my feet. No, I'm lying, I'm holding my breath a lot, my face is very close to turning blue. I rip open the door quickly grabbing the package and practically trying to shove the door closed. I'm confused for a second when the door won't exactly close when I look down I see that my remaining sock is stuck in the door jam. I shove it away with my foot and finally shut the door and lock it. The whole time my silent semi-stranger, friend, person doesn't move an inch. Remaining stoic in a statuesque way across the porch except when he took a moment to chuckle at me.

My cheeks flame in embarrassment so I make the effort to avoid eye contact with him. My hands tremble slightly as I stare at the package in my hands, my heart pounding in my chest. I gather my fugitive socks up off the floor and shove them into my pile of dirty laundry that is in the corner of our living room. I rip open the package and spread its contents all over the kitchen island.

What the hell?

I shuffle the heap trying desperately to make sense of what lies before me. Bundles of money secured by rubber bands litter the island. Estimating by how many hundreds in a stack and how many stacks there are in total, this has to be at least fifty thousand decorating the granite countertop. Where did this money come from? Whatever it is, I don't want to be associated with it. But when I shove the money into a replacement envelope, since the one it came in is now shredded, and leave it outside my door I'm met with a muscular hand clutching my wrist. He glares down at me and pulls me into a standing position using his hold on my wrist.

Just before my mother died, I told her I was engaged to Rio. Her only advice was for me to pick my battles. So I settle with the fact that this is not the hill I want to die on and retreat back into the house, envelope still in hand. My arm strains, I'm doing my best to shove the dirty money into the far depths of my wardrobe top shelf. Old unpacked boxes are shoved in front of it making sure to keep everything hidden. When I make my way back out of the bedroom I find a sadly familiar face while his hand hovers above the doorbell. He stops when we make eye contact just as I pause in my trek to the kitchen. I stand unmoving while his brain slowly catches up to what's in front of him. I show no signs of coming to open the door for him wrapping my last clean cardigan tighter around myself.

"Miss, I just want to talk" our landlord shouts out to me trying to project his voice through the door. My mysterious friend stands ominously behind him, hands clasped at his front. "You look like you could use someone to talk to" comes out much quieter than his first sentence. I slowly inch towards them, shuffling along the wooden floor. I keep silent as I open the door and gesture our landlord inside. He pauses mid-step and glances down at my mismatched socks and more pity fills his eyes. I'm about to close the door when a tattooed hand stops it as odd friend shoves his way inside and I let him. A jerk of my head clearly sends the hint that I want the landlord to sit in the armchair on the far side of the living room. He scrunched his nose at the smell but then quickly puts a neutral expression on his face.

I settle myself on the sofa sitting as far as possible to put some distance between us. The realization that I've run out of my luck falls upon me when my peculiar friend sits right next to me. Invading my comfort zone and making himself comfortable by resting his arms onto the backrest of the couch. I'm not oblivious to the fact that it looks like we're a couple.

Mr. Clarence, as he introduces himself, clears his throat, and a bright red hue falls onto his cheeks. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat before he begins, "didn't you have a... partner living with you? The guy with the, uh, the tattoo who paid the rent" he gestures vaguely at his neck. A slow nod follows from me. "Okay, uh, do you- is he coming back?" A shrug. "I'm really worried about you. You seem to have something affecting you, and I don't want to pry, so I'm just going to leave this with you." He holds out a pamphlet, that I didn't notice, to me and when I make no move to collect on his offer he sets it on the coffee table in front of him.

He shoots out of his chair, cleverly eager to get out of the uncomfortable atmosphere. "You c-can come by anytime or you could call" he stammers out as he quickly rushes out the door leaving the grief counselor's pamphlet for me to do with whatever I wish. I slowly turn my head and strain my neck up to glance at my personal bubble encroacher who is making no move to leave. Mortification fills me as I glance around the home I once shared with the love of my life. Piles of clothes litter the room, accentuated by snack wrappers and empty bottles of booze. Not to mention the pile of dirty, smelly blankets covering the sofa we're sitting on.