Dear Maria (on hold)

Part 4

 The first thing I was aware of before I opened my eyes was the dull pounding of me head, the second thing I was aware before I opened my eyes was that I was cold, the third thing I was aware of before I opened my eyes was the lack of something vital. I did my best to open my eyes, but they were heavy with sleep, and the scene I awoke to was blurry. I blinked a few times, and it eventually became clear to me what had happened. Maria had stayed last night, we had both fallen asleep on the futons in the living room, the empty bottle of wine that lay several feet away explained the headache, the lack of blankets explained my shivers, and the lack of Maria, me waking up alone, explained my deep sense of missing. Due to not actually owning any blankets and being unable to stand up, plus my utter lack of will, I simply curled into a loose fetal position, feeling lonely and every bit as rejected and passed over as I always had when my hit-and-run boyfriends had moved on to someone better. I closed my eyes against the world, and tightened my arms around myself.

I was this close to falling back to sleep and becoming oblivious once again, when I heard my door open with a low creak. Too far gone to realize the danger of someone I couldn't see walking into my house while I lay on the living room floor, all I wanted was to be left alone.

“Go away.” I mumbled grumpily, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard the door shut and then footsteps heading my way, and now more awake, my eyes flew open and I turned around so fast that I toppled off my layer of three futons. I sat up and blinked blearily up at the person who was now standing in the doorway of the living room, doing her best not to laugh.

“Hey, sleepy head. I got coffee.” she said in her warm, sexy Boston accent. I peered up at her from my spot on the floor, and suddenly smiled so hard my face hurt when I saw Maria standing there, holding two Peet's coffee cups and two small brown Peet's paper bags.

“You didn't leave.” I breathed, in shock and wonderment. Maria was still looking at me oddly, with an amused smile on her lips.

“I'm here, Holly. And I brought coffee.” She assured me, walking over to me and sitting down beside me. I ran my hand self consciously through my hair, wondering what kind of mess I looked like. Knowing where my thoughts were headed, Maria laughed and handed me a brush, while I looked at her in wonder, convinced she knew everything. I dragged the brush painfully through my tangled hair, then, giving up on any semblance of tamed hair, I pulled it back into a messy bun. Maria handed me a coffee, and I took a tentative sip while she watched on with amusement. Mocha... with whipped cream.

“Aah, you really are a saint.” I sighed happily, causing her to laugh again, and the two of us drank our coffee and ate our breakfast of lemon iced scones. I'd never done anything like this before, but I'd also never met anyone like Maria before. It was perfect.

Perfection... doesn't exist. What is “perfect” anyway? For something or someone to be perfect, they would have to have imperfections, and if they had imperfection, it implied that they weren't perfect. There is also no such thing as forever. Truth hardly existed either, and love was a game that the world and your heart played on you, I thought as I sat on the floor of my kitchen binging on nachos with everything on them, stuffing my face, attempting to soothe my frazzled nerves. Trying to feel full for once, with the mindless act of bring my hands, laden with soggy chips, back and forth to my mouth. Yesterday and today with Maria had been so wonderful that it had made my head spin, but now it was over, and it was time to get back to reality. My face scrunched up as I struggled not to cry, berating myself for being so ungrateful. Hours as amazing as the ones Maria had given me were so rare, a one-in-a-lifetime thing, really. So I should be ecstatic. But I wasn't.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I muttered, my throat sore and my voice rough. I knew I was damn lucky and that it was downright selfish and ungrateful to feel disappointed. I still felt like shit. It was just... incredibly hard to imagine keeping on living for so much longer, for fifty, sixty years, having to jump through hoops and play roles and lie and be alone, knowing I'd already had my “once-in-a-lifetime” when I was thirty. Once I was dead, I wouldn't have to wonder if I was playing my part well enough, or if someone was seeing through my fronts, having to wonder how long it would take this time for my boyfriend or husband to become bored, to wonder, and to never, ever, stop lying, to everyone, to myself. Until then, it would never stop, and I would never stop waiting. And I would never be full, I would simply be. Empty, hollow. No matter how much I ate. I let my head fall back to hit the cupboard with a resounding, painful thunk, the tray of nachos laying empty by my feet, and as the emptiness overwhelmed me, I was filled with self-loathing. It was the worst when I was alone like this, it was when it was so quiet that I truly hated myself.