bread crumbs

head vs. heart vs. him: a short story

HEAD VS. HEART VS. HIM                                                                                                                                                          a short story 

We were sitting in our favorite bar, Piano's. I wore that dress he liked, with the plunging V-neck and the zipper. "For easy access," he used to kid with a wink. He talked at a rapid rate, phrases like "on a break" and "I met someone else" were thrown haphazardly, like bombs hitting civilians. None of this permeated my skull. I was on my third shot of tequila and felt pretty dizzy.

"You're breaking up with me?!?" I shouted, incredulous and sloppy. I personified the drunk girl stereotype that I loathe.

"Yes," he nodded, his hand atop mine. Then, he snatched it away. This was not how my night was supposed to end.

"I'm sorry," he started again, " but I have to go. I'm going to be late for my improv troupe." With that, he exited the bar. I was left with heartbreak and the bill, a disastrous combination. So, I did with any other millennial would do. I ordered another shot, payed the check, and stumbled to my half empty home.

The next day, I was a wreck. I stared at the phone for hours on end, hoping telekinesis would summon him. Family called. Friends texted. They all had suspicions that he was cheating. I defended my judgement, not him. He didn't email. He didn't even tweet. Everything was frigid without his embrace. I couldn't take it. Just when I was about risk my piece of peace by calling him (again), I heard his Converse pounding on the stairs and his raspy voice.

"Kathleen," his baritone was a smoke signal.

The nations in my nerves ached for a surrender. I wanted desperately to wave the white flag. But, I was tired. Too tired, perhaps. Surrender is exhausting, especially when you're not the one who waged war.

I found myself gravitating toward the door, toward him. My fingers were dissenting, twisting the knob before I could exhale.

"You're back," I whispered, but the fragility of my voice made it sound less like a statement, and more like a question.

"Where else would I go?," he replied, but it didn't sound romantic. Superiority dripped from it like wet paint.

Everywhere. Nowhere. The moon. The bar you like on the corner of Essex and Canal. Her arms.

He took my silence for an invitation (it wasn't) and entered mine/ours/our roommate's apartment. We fell into a routine, our old habits greeting us like pals separated by thousands of miles and decades of time. I poured him a Coke and myself a glass of wine, having realized that I'd need courage for whatever I did (or did not) decide to do. He chuckled. I couldn't find it in me to hate him for it. I used to like how deliciously childish he was, laughing at all the wrong things.

A certain sorcery moved us to the couch. I sat next to him, as if a magician haunted the room. His next trick was to make the six inches of space between us disappear. The silence was palpable and coarse, like rug burn. Finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry," his words only satisfied the air.

"I'm sorry," he tried once more, as though three syllables can suddenly mend nine months of wounds. It's supposed to. The universe tells us that sorry is a panacea, curing everything from minor bumps to forgotten birthdays to affairs with trusted best friends. It's funny how the universe is so cosmically wrong sometimes. "I'm sorry" did not feel like antibiotics. It felt like a parasite. "I'm sorry" was most certainly not a band-aid. It was hot wax, a chemical burn to the heart. "I'm sorry" cannot fix a broken class by filling in the cracks. It falls in between the spaces, penetrating the half emptiness. Two words do not erase seven thousand "I love you's" uttered in secrecy.