She isn’t going to call. She isn’t going to call. She isn’t going to call. She isn’t going to call. She isn’t going to call. But she may show up?
She may show up. She may come here. She may need me. She may have forgotten that beige sweater she wore on the day we went to the park and she told me she would still have love to make kids with me one day even though there is a chance my fucked up genetics could give them the same disorder. She could need me. She could want me.
I felt a sense of liberation, fear, and most of all hope when the heart stopping click of the door lock cuts through the house and I walk away, leaving full access for the world to waltz into my home and disrupt the perfect sanctuary I’ve spent my life creating. However, this also means she has access. She can waltz in her and destroy the perfection because when she’s in my life, she’s the only source of perfection. She’s my ultimate compulsion, my only love, my disordered minds only excelsior.
There have been two times in my life there hasn’t been the voice in my mind spewing thoughts about perfection, orderliness, or how something felt. The first time was the moment she walked out of the door. I collapsed, literally, onto the floor and ignored any thoughts that came my way. Luckily they were mostly silent except my internal pleas directed to her. I layed on the floor for what seemed like an endless amount of time. I thought for a while I would die in that spot. My mind didn’t care about the fact when I came crashing down I knocked over a stack of books or that I didn’t lock the door after she left or that the timer in the kitchen was going off. It only cared about the fact that my only personal shot of happiness had just walked out the door without a second glance at the shattered vase of a man who loved her with all his disordered soul.
I felt like I was stuck in the middle of a forest with only one pack of matches as a survival tool and the matches had just become soaked with rain. My only chance, my one roman candle shooting across the night sky, the only thing to silence my torturous mind, just walked away.
The second time was this moment right now. It had been a week. She had not appeared anywhere but inside my mind and reflected in every face I saw. Although none of the women I passed had her beautifully curved lips, her too big for her face eyes, her slightly worn out hair, her perfection. I don’t know why now, there was no poignancy in this moment, but when I walked in my door after walking home, I locked the door out of habit. Then immediately unlocked it in hopes of her airy soul that felt like a magnet to my tattoo covered body with float in. I went about my business ignoring the physical itch I was feeling on my arm due to the unlocked door. My usually traitorous mind seemed to finally agree with me. The only thing more important than order and ticks was her, was happiness.
I would let every window of my house my burst open, all the books torn to shreds on the floor, cabinets in complete disarray, if it meant just another second to feel her petite body fitting into my towering figure, her crooked smile that didn’t bother me for a second to show when she looked at me like it used to. I used to be her happiness.
“Harry,” her voice giggled. “STOP!” She shrieked as she went running through our house at full speed, barreling down the stairs from our bedroom to the living room.
“Never,” I responded slightly out of breath from the quick burst of running. We were now squaring off in our living room, both rocking side to side behind two pieces of furniture across from each other waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness from the other.
“All you have to do is apologize and this will all be over and we can go finish making love upstairs,” I explained to her with a grin forming on my face at the thought of the act we were about to do. We had sex. A lot. But each time was magical for me. I never let someone touch me without cleaning where we had just made contact immediately after. But with her I let those small hands wander every inch of my body, discovering the bumps and marks left from years of living in the barren land of Holmes Chapel, and felt the opposite emotion from my typical germaphobia after. I craved to keep her scent, sweat, and aura on me. I never wanted to wash after touching her and if I did, I wanted her to be in there with me and not worry about pumping the shampoo exactly size even squirts. Instead, I wanted to pull her close under the curtain of water and mold ourselves into one being.
Never,” she repeated my word, interrupting my thoughts about exactly how unconditionally important she was to me. Finally, she made her move towards the kitchen, flailing her arms the whole way and shouting “the shirt does looks stupid!” When she got into the kitchen, she knocked over a paper towel roll, which I quickly picked back up and put into it’s intended position. She used my momentary lapse as a chance to escape. Our entire argument was forgotten when I finally was able to catch up with her and wrap my hand around her waist, pulling her body into mine and off the ground.
“You’re mine,” was all I breathed into her ear before we continued back upstairs to consummate our love as always.
When I was getting ready for bed, I left the door unlocked. I left the light on.
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