ACHES

27. nicotine

I dragged myself to the living room, sitting with my wine stain. I delicately smoothed my fingers over the dark glass of the wine bottle I had opened last night. It was nearly full.

I took it to the bathroom, to the white porcelain of our sink. I tipped it, watching it circle the drain, staining the sink bloody and the air sweet. I cleaned the sink with bleach. I scrubbed the bathtub, the floors, the windowsills. I vacuumed, I dusted the tops of the cabinets, I sanitized all our doorknobs.

I laid on the floor, in the clean house, in our perfect living room. I had space to stretch out all my limbs, until it felt as if my joints would slip from their sockets. I slept on the floor, reaching for nothing.

The next day, I sat under the oak tree, chain smoking any cigarettes he had left in the house. I leaned far back against the bark, letting it dig and scratch into my back. I listened to the leaves brush against each other uselessly. I watched the sun find its way through the spaces in between them.

When I took the last drag from his last cigarette, I took a shaky hand and lifted my shirt, circling my thumb around the scar I had put on my hip. I blinked, pressing the last of the cigarette into the space beside the scar, feeling nothing at all. I flicked the cigarette across the lawn, staring at the new red circle on my hip. I traced the tattooed heart below it. I went inside and threw up from the nicotine.

The day after that, I laid in bed with his newest Moleskine, turning it over in my hands. I closed my eyes when I opened it, feeling guilty for spying. I traced my fingers over his writing on the first page.

Love you, love you, love you...

I swallowed, my throat feeling thick and hot.

"You can read it," he said, suddenly in the doorway. I shrieked, snapping the notebook closed in shock.

"I didn't hear you come home," I murmured, sitting up. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "I only read the first page."

"It's okay," he shrugged. He stepped towards me, sitting on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the notebook, opening it. "I hope to be buried under this oak tree," he read.

"Is that when you proposed?" I whispered. He nodded.

"I want to be entwined in the roots with her, our bones knotted together over time."

I hummed.

"I drink so much when I'm away from her that I come home hungover. It makes the migraines worse, not drinking. Or maybe the drinking causes the migraines."

"Are you just in withdrawals when you're home?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know," he shook his head.

I nodded.

"Do you want to hear more?" He turned the page, looking over to me.

"No," I admitted, and he tossed the notebook onto the nightstand.

"I want to sleep with you," he said. "But you don't know the difference between pain and intimacy."

"That's not true," I said, tears prickling behind my eyes.

"I could kiss you or hit you, you'd still look at me the same." He kissed a tear off my cheek. "I just want to be sweet to you."

"You are," I bit my lip to stop it from shaking.

"But you want me to hurt you."

"No, I don't," I shook my head. He cradled the back of my head. "I just won't stop you."

He nodded slowly. His shoulders shook, a wet streak ripping down his cheek.

"There was someone."

I opened my mouth, but closed it. My throat had dried.

"She kissed me, once–"

I smothered my mouth with my hand, my ears ringing.

"But that was it, I promise. I promise." His eyebrows knit a line down his forehead. "We don't speak anymore. At all."

I turned my cheek into the pillow, sobbing without a sound. My nails dug into my palms.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

His hand was stone on my shoulder.

"It was nothing," he said, over and over. I closed my eyes, seeing him with faceless women, intriguing them. Learning about them, forgetting me.

It was nothing.

It was nothing.

It was nothing.